Slow torture
by Guinevere81
Summary: John is used to being attacked by criminal madmen wanting to get to Sherlock, but this time he is determined that they will not succeed. The only questions are how long can he hold out and how long can he hide what is going on from Sherlock. This story needs warnings for almost everything by now, mostly violence but there will be worse warnings posted for separate chapters.
1. The beginning

**New version of this chapter now Beta'd by Swimmergirl0726. You have her to thank for all the commas.**

John had spent a wonderfully lazy evening in the pub with Mike Stamford and was currently visiting the toilet before returning home to Sherlock. He was just washing his hands when he felt the hard metal of a gun being shoved forcefully between his shoulder blades.

'Unless you want me to put a bullet in your spine right away you better stand still and listen to what I say.' Came a man's hard voice from behind him. John did not recognise the voice but it was steady and calm and suggested that whoever was speaking meant business.

'You have chosen unwisely in your boyfriend, Dr Watson' The voice informed him and John could not help but sigh slightly.

'I don't have a boyfriend, I'm not gay. The man you saw me with tonight is just a friend.' John informed but even as he did so he had a nagging feeling that it was not Mike that the man was referring to.

'Don't play dumb, Dr Watson. You know to whom I am referring. Sherlock ruined my life and now I have every intention of ruining his.'

'Right, how did he ruin your life and how do I come into this?' John asked resignedly. He was so tired of nasty criminals using him to get to his friend. He feared this time would be no different.

Five years ago Sherlock Holmes put the love of my life behind bars. She did not deserve it. Her brother on the other hand deserved to be killed. What she did was a good deed.' John smiled slightly but said nothing. No one deserved to be killed, and Sherlock was nothing if not meticulous in making sure he got the right suspect. For a second a cabbie with a bullet through his shoulder flashed before his eyes. But that was different, the man hadn't died from the shot, he'd died from complications that the injury caused to his already diseased body, and after all John had shot to save a life, not to take one. No, this man was clearly mad if he thought that murder was ever justified.

'You have no idea what she suffered while inside. You will though, very soon. Five years of bullying. Slow torture drawn out over years. You can't imagine what it was like turning up to see her just to be told exactly what had been done to her, the beatings, the abuse, she was even raped. Can you imagine that? One woman raping another woman. They let her out last month and do you know what she did?'

'No.' John answered simply. He was fairly sure that he was about to find out.

'Only hours after her release she swallowed three packets of paracetamol down with vodka and then slit her wrists. The note said she was looking forward to finally being free.' The man spat the last word as though it was a curse.

'I'm sorry for your loss' John said, and was surprised to find that he actually meant it despite the gun pressed against his back.

'Oh you might be sorry, but not half as sorry as Sherlock Holmes will be. You see I'm going to make sure that he suffers the same way I have. I'm sorry that this means you have to suffer to, I have nothing against you personally, but it is unavoidable' The man did not sound sorry, he sounded angry.

Suddenly the gun was withdrawn and something hard impacted with John's back, sending him crashing to the floor where he slumped gasping for breath.

'I would tell you not to tell anyone, the way they told her, but that would rather defeat the purpose. You run home to him, and tell him what I did to you. I'm looking forward to seeing him crumble when he realises he cannot protect you, that he is helpless to stop you being hurt'. John twisted on the floor to look at his attacker, but he caught only the sight of a tall, dark haired man's back disappearing out of the toilet door.


	2. patients

id:10351163

**Now betad by the lovely Swimmergirl0726**

John made his way back to the flat slowly, walking instead of taking the bus in order to give himself time to think about what had happened. He considered telling Sherlock about the meeting with the man in the pub, but it felt very wrong to play into the criminal's desires so in the end he didn't.

A purple bruise had developed on his back by the next day, but even though it hurt it was not too hard to hide from Sherlock. John was never one to walk around the flat with his top off, and now he hid his discomfort under his collection of jumpers.

At first he was not aware that anything strange was going on, it was just annoying little things that seemed to be going wrong all the time. In the week following the meeting he had three downright abusive patients, which eventually had him asking Sarah if she had purposefully sent him all the nutcases.

The first one, on Monday afternoon, had been a woman that, when he refused to renew her prescription for painkillers, had yelled that he was useless and pathetic and slapped him with a ring clad hand. The diamond on her finger had cut a red line across his cheek that bled, but did not need stitches.

He filed the necessary report for the clinic, but refused to report the woman's behaviour to the police. Despite the fact that she was an upper middle class house wife, she was also an addict and in need of some serious help to detox and get her life in order. John put all of that into her file and, according to surgery policy after an altercation, handed the case over to another doctor.

Two days later, just before lunch, he had a routine appointment for a young man who needed his stitches taken out. The boy was obviously nervous, but hiding it behind a thick veneer of pretended cool cockiness. He showed off and insulted John at intervals, but John could tell that he was probably more terrified of having his stitches taken out than he had been of the knife that caused the original wound.

'It is going to be fine. It won't hurt, I promise. Just sit as still as you can' John instructed as he got his instruments and started to remove the sutures. The boy flinched with the removal of each stitch and after the third he burst to his feet, pulling at the injury and making a small cut open up in the almost healed scar tissue.

'You incompetent bastard!' he yelled and as John rose to his feet the boy punched him solidly in the stomach, making him double over in surprise. He backed away, expecting another blow, but none was forthcoming. The young man just stormed out of the room, two stitches still left in his arm, and John stumbled back and sank into his chair drawing shallow breaths and cursing himself for losing control of the situation.

Once again he filed the necessary report, taking full responsibility for the incident, and passed the client on. In fact, before reporting what had happened he went into Sarah's office to tell her that if she wanted to report him for underestimating the need for anesthetics he would understand. She shook her head and laughed at him, telling him that he was being ridiculous, but he still felt a little uncomfortable when he went home. It had nothing to do with his sore stomach and everything to do with the feeling that he had, in fact, misjudged the situation.

By Friday afternoon John was tired. He had worked every day that week, trying to get his finances back on track after a stint of having to take time off to work cases with Sherlock, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and enjoy his weekend.

The last patient of the day was noted in his calendar merely as an ear ache, and he expected it to be simple. When the man turned up he was surprisingly twitchy, but John put that down to being in pain. After examining the man's ears however, he found absolutely nothing wrong.

'I can't see anything wrong with your ears, Mr Everet' he said in his most sympathetic doctor voice. 'Are you sure that was what you wanted to talk to me about? It isn't something else?' The twitchiness was beginning to suggest nerves rather than pain, and John felt a little sorry for the man's obvious discomfort. 'You don't have to be embarrassed about anything. I'm sure that whatever it is I have seen worse.' He smiled in that particular way that he used only on patients and Sherlock when he was being more unreasonable than usual.

'You don't believe me.' The man stood staring at John with frightened eyes. 'You're one of them, you're in on it, you want to kill me!' John approached the man with his hands held out in a disarming manner and crouched before the man's chair. Paranoia and hypochondria, he was going to have to get the man a referral for psychological evaluation. He just needed to get him calmed down first.

'Get off me, lover boy!' the man snarled even though John had not touched him. The glint of metal carving through the air caught John's attention fast enough for him to bring his hands up and stop the descent of the knife. It was not a large blade, just a small pocket knife, but it sliced through his palm with painful ease.

The cut was not deep, and John had the man restrained and the knife out of his hands in a matter of seconds as he yelled for help from his colleagues. Sarah wanted to call the police, but they compromised with having a security guard bring the man in for an emergency admission to the psych ward and John allowing Sarah to put four stitches in his palm, even though he thought it was probably excessive under the circumstances.

He returned home that evening later than expected and completely exhausted. Sherlock looked up from his book with a bored look on his face until his eyes landed on John's bandaged hand and he bounced out of his chair. Curiosity, only very mildly tempered by concern, was plainly written on his face.

'What happened, John? That's the second time you've been hurt at work this week. I thought the surgery was supposed to be safe and boring' He grabbed Johns hand, but John pulled it back with a tired sigh.

'Third, actually…' he corrected, 'I've had the week from hell.' He meandered into the kitchen and Sherlock watched him with raised eyebrows.

'I missed something, what did I miss?' John chuckled softly as he put the kettle on.

'There was nothing to see, so you didn't miss anything.' He put two mugs on the bench, plonked teabags into them and went to get the milk out of the fridge. 'I got punched by a frustrated teenager with a fear of having his stitches out, that's all. It didn't even leave a mark.' That was a bit of a lie, but not much of one and he really didn't want Sherlock asking to have a look like he had so often before when John had gotten himself hurt. The bruise across his back had turned from blue to black and was now progressing to yellow, but it was still clearly visible and he didn't want any questions from Sherlock.

In fact, all this drama at work was probably a good thing as it meant that he had not thought about the strange meeting in the toilet for days. Maybe it had just been a hollow threat. After all, he had not seen anything from the strange man all week.

'I told Sarah that she was giving you a run for your money as far as getting me into trouble, she didn't like that!' John joked as he handed Sherlock his tea. 'So, what have you been doing all day? Any word from Lestrade?' he asked and Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace.

'Nothing, absolutely nothing. I'm soooo bored!' Sherlock whined as John smiled and sipped his tea. Sherlock was so predictable… he would have to call Lestrade and see if there wasn't something, anything, to keep Sherlock occupied or the entire weekend would be a disaster.


	3. a new boss

**Now betad by the lovely swimmergirl0726.**

John had thought that if only he could find Sherlock a case to occupy him, the weekend would be relaxing. He had been wrong. Lestrade had brought them in on the latest homicide investigation, but since it had been so clear cut that he could have easily solved it himself, it had resulted in little else than Sherlock insulting the better part of the major crimes division and John having to pick up the pieces.

Add to that the fact that two new members had joined the team, and they were not taking kindly to Sherlock's presence, it had turned out to be a decidedly awkward weekend. John had been able to deflect most of their nasty comments and keep Sherlock out of their way, but he had the nasty feeling that it had been the beginning of what would turn out to be the very opposite of a beautiful friendship.

As he lay in bed on Sunday night he felt very uneasy. He had the feeling that pushing Lestrade into occupying Sherlock had been a very bad move. He was not one to be easily affected by other people's opinions, but after two days of basically intentionally allowing the young new officers to insult him over how superfluous he was and how clearly needy and pathetic it was to have the short little man trailing around the crime scene sucking up to the freak and making everyone cups of tea he felt anything but rested.

He knew that it had been necessary, if he had not allowed them to focus on him they would have had much more time to speak their ire of Sherlock out loud and the resulting conflict would not have been as easily managed.

Still, it had drained him. No one liked to spend their weekend being insulted and cut down in order to protect a friend who was completely oblivious to the fact that anything was amiss, not even John, no matter how much he cared for the stupid git. Hopefully soon enough something would turn up that actually interested Sherlock and John would be allowed to stop feeling like he was babysitting the great detective just to keep him from getting so bored that he blew up their flat.

John barely slept that night, despite being exhausted, and the next morning he was out of the flat before Sherlock was awake. He was looking forward to the distraction that work would bring and thought to himself that he might ask Sarah if she would go out for a platonic lunch together so that he could moan a bit about his infuriating flatmate and not least the horrid patients he'd had the past week. She would understand, and she would probably be supportive and things would not feel quite so bad.

Therefore it was a great disappointment when he arrived at work to find Sarah's office occupied by a middle aged man he had never seen before. He knocked hesitantly.

'Hello, I'm Doctor John Watson, where is Sarah?' He asked cheerfully, but the man looked up at him with a frown.

'Dr Sawyer has had to go away on family business; I am taking over for her in her absence. My name is Dr Hogg.' The man ignored John's outstretched hand and kept his eyes on the computer screen on Sarah's desk. John could not help but feel that it was something of an intrusion to see this unknown male sitting at Sarah's desk using her computer. Still, if she was away there was nothing else for it, although it was unusual to bring someone in from the outside instead of having one of their own team take over for Sarah while she was away.

'Well it was nice to meet you' John smiled and turned to leave. 'You let me know if there is anything you want to know about the surgery or anything.'

At that the man actually looked up at John, cold eyes fixing him with a calculating gaze. 'Ah… so you are one of those… I don't need the help of average GP to do my job. You just make sure you do what is expected of you, and I will manage the rest.' Dr Hogg, with no first name, waved him off and John could not help but feel a little like a schoolboy who has just been told off by the headmaster for giving him cheek.

It did not take John more than a few days to figure out that Dr Hogg did not like him and was doing his best to make sure that John felt the effects of being in his temporary boss' bad books. There was, of course, a long list of patients that everyone in the surgery detested having to deal with: the hypochondriacs, the addicts, the mothers convinced that their babies were dying if they so much as sneezed, the immigrants who really did not understand English but who refused the help of an interpreter… the list was long, and after two days John had swiftly figured out that every single one of these patients somehow found their way into his calendar.

He tried to ignore it, after all Sarah would be back soon and everything would return to normal. But then the whispers started.

John had always been well liked in the surgery. His kind manner and willingness to help anyone who asked and even sometimes those who hadn't asked had earned him a reputation as a thoroughly nice chap, despite the fact that he was not on the full time staff, and he got on well with everyone, or so he had thought. Therefore, it was a surprise when he found that some of his colleagues were looking suspiciously at him as he passed. Then he found that he was sitting on his own in the lunchroom with his colleagues taking their seats as far away from him as possible and he began to truly wonder what was going on.

When Friday rolled around and he overheard the nurses talking about the after work drinks that Dr Hogg had so kindly arranged John knew that things had progressed from slightly annoying to downright unpleasant as he found that he was the only member of the team who had not received an invite. It wasn't as if he really had the time to go, he needed to get home to Sherlock and do damage control if Sherlock still had not found a case to interest him, but he had never before not been invited to a work event and he always made an effort to at least go for a little while, so something in him felt decidedly uneasy to find that his colleagues had turned on him so easily with the replacement of their boss.

It was almost a relief when Dr Hogg told him that he would only be needed for one day the following week. He knew it would strain his budget, but he did not want to have to force his way through days in a place where he could clearly feel that he was not wanted.

So as his colleagues headed off to the pub, he picked up his jacket and made his way home to Sherlock. At least Sherlock always wanted his company.


	4. coffee

**Now edited by Swimmergirl0726**.

John came home to find Sherlock happily engrossed in a large file of papers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly something had caught his flatmate's attention, so maybe this weekend would turn out to be a little less unpleasant than the last.

He was incredibly tired and felt both sad and confused at the recent developments at the clinic, but he pushed them aside and gave all his attention to Sherlock; who was bouncing around the flat throwing out deductions and telling him over and over how brilliant things were… It made John genuinely smile for the first time in two weeks.

By eight o'clock they found themselves at New Scotland Yard, having spent an hour at the crime scene with Sherlock happily spouting deductions. John found that he didn't mind the cruel quips about his uselessness when Sherlock was so happy and asking for his opinion even though he didn't really need it. Any amount, of 'Annoying little git' and 'Pathetic little queer' were acceptable if it meant that he would be faced with that excited grin and Sherlock's warm hand on his back as he did his best to live up to the role of medical assistant to the genius detective.

Back at the yard John was beginning to feel the effects of two weeks of solid work and weekends of traipsing around crime scenes, and he was grateful when a young office temp handed him a large cup of coffee.

'Oh, the coffee machine must have broken again… let's hope it stays that way, the stuff from the shop downstairs is so much better.' Lestrade grinned happily as he saw that the coffee that had been delivered was in paper cups, and not in the standard white mugs of the office kitchen.

John wasn't sure that he cared, everything seemed to taste the same lately and he was too tired to care what coffee or tea tasted like any more…. It was just a vague stimulant to keep him from falling asleep, not that he ever slept very long anyway…

He realized that this was bad… that the past couple of weeks had been bad, and that he was letting them get to him. He remembered those months before he had met Sherlock, the way life had seemed to slip away from him, the numbness, the feeling of being completely on his own and life being utterly useless… it was not quite that bad this time… at least he had those moments of Sherlock dragging him around London, the thrill that he got from that manic grin…

He sipped at his coffee as he watched Sherlock work at the material on Lestrade's desk. It was almost therapeutic to sit there watching his flatmate puzzle together the pictures and clues, and for the first time in weeks John felt himself relax.

He was actually smiling when he lowered his coffee cup and, quite by accident, glanced inside it. His eyebrows shot up as he realized that there were words written inside it in permanent marker which the hot liquid had not been able to eradicate.

'John… are you enjoying my attention… it can be quite uncomfortable… you really should tell him… oh, and by the way, you may want to throw up.' John looked at the cup in confusion… what the hell did it mean?… but he had the feeling that he better obey the message… the confrontation from two weeks ago was still present at the back of his mind and it flashed to the front now with disturbing clarity.

"I'm just going to the toilet, be back in a sec.' He assured Sherlock and Lestrade before he headed off to the toilet to stick his fingers down his throat. He wondered if he was being paranoid as he retched into the toilet, bringing lashings of coffee up and heaving uncomfortably. Still, the warning he had received two weeks ago combined with the message in his cup made him decidedly uncomfortable.

Once he was sure that his stomach was thoroughly empty he returned to Lestrade's office where Sherlock was just advising Lestrade on the best way to make an arrest. Sherlock looked thrilled and Lestrade more than a little put out and John felt more comfortable than his current situation warranted as he folded up his mug and waited for Sherlock to finish.


	5. poison or flue?

**Nicely beta'd by Swimmergirl0726**

Once they got home they happily ordered Chinese takeaway and Sherlock actually ate. John could not remember the last time he had felt so content going to bed, but that night he did. There was a surprising calm in the flat that allowed him to fall asleep without nightmares for once.

He woke up the next morning with traces of last night's contentment still at the back of his mind, yet a larger part told him that something was wrong. He was shivering slightly and his head was pounding uncomfortably. Flu, or something worse… he was frighteningly aware of the message in his cup from last night. Had he underestimated that threat from two weeks ago?

Saturday had arrived and John accepted the impossibility of falling back asleep as he dragged himself out of bed and made sure that there was tea and toast in the flat. He was still exhausted and felt like life was getting increasingly out of control. Not only was his professional life turning into a mess, but he could tell that he was running a temperature which might be the result of complete exhaustion or whatever he had unintentionally ingested in that coffee the night before.

That life with Sherlock was strange and confusing was nothing new, he enjoyed that, and in a twisted way the strange threat he had received in that toilet was almost par for the course. The developments at work, however, were not; and it somehow threw him off to find that for some reason he could not pinpoint everyone seemed to be turning on him. Not on Sherlock, which would be normal, but on him, and for the first time he entertained the idea that this was all linked. Could it be that his new horrid boss was somehow in cahoots with the man from the toilet… it seemed a paranoid notion… but not impossible.

Equally, he was fairly sure that the fact that he felt like death warmed over was linked to the strange message in his coffee cup the night before. The only comfort was that the messages, both the one in person in the toilet and the one in the cup, seemed to indicate that this madman wanted him alive. He wouldn't be able to be a pawn in the project of torturing Sherlock if he wasn't there and living through this process. So he was only mildly worried to find that as soon as he had finished his breakfast his stomach rebelled and he found himself in the bathroom expelling tea and toast with painful force.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock was standing in the doorway, looking concerned but not overly so.

"Yes, probably the flu." John mumbled looking up at his flatmate with tired eyes. Maybe he should just tell him. No, he would not play straight into the hands of this madman. As long as he did not get worse, as long as this was really just a bug, or at the very least a mild case of poisoning, he would say nothing. John, there is no such thing as a mild case of poisoning, poisoning is bad; His subconscious reprimanded him, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as he rinsed his mouth and took his temperature.

Thirty eight point one it read, and John heaved a sigh. Paracetamol and bed, he decided, no not bed, sofa… just in case this was something more sinister and he needed to be close enough to Sherlock to at least hope that the detective would notice if he fell asleep and did not wake up. If you're even entertaining that notion you should tell him… his subconscious chastised him but no, he simply couldn't. He was not helpless, just tired and ill.

In the end he spent two absolutely miserable days on the sofa. His temperature rose slowly from thirty eight to peak at thirty nine point six, and he had to admit that he was genuinely worried at that point.

The high of the case from the previous night had left Sherlock calmer than John had seen him in weeks and he was surprisingly both attentive and concerned. He brought tea and paracetamol, both of which John promptly vacated in the toilet again mere minutes after having received them.

After two days of throwing up everything he put in his mouth, things finally eased off and the panic that had been rising at the back of John's mind eased with it. He was able to eat again, the fever that had been steadily climbing began to go down and he felt better.

The relief was indescribable when he was once again able to eat toast and have it stay in his system. By Monday afternoon his temperature was approaching normal and he no longer worried that he might have been seriously poisoned, it really had just been a matter of the flu, right?

He clutched at that imaginary straw as he slowly returned to normal. He silently wondered when he was ever going to get a restful weekend but he didn't mind when Sherlock burst into his room and told him they had a client coming and was he healthy enough to attend without contaminating the client?


	6. on the Thames path

The client turned out to be a middle aged man who wanted help retrieving his missing watch collection. It sounded dull to John and he thoroughly expects Sherlock to turn him down. He doesn't, instead the consulting detective looks rather enthusiastic as he plonks himself down in front of his laptop with a satisfied grin across his face.

"You can go, I'll call you when I've solved it" Sherlock directs the client who nodded and slinks away obviously a little intimidated by Sherlock's frantic energy.

"John I need you to search the Southbank for any cigarette butts you can find, and make sure you label them carefully so I know where you found them" Sherlock directs and John looks at him incredulous.

"You are aware that I have been constantly throwing up and sleeping for most of the weekend… I really would rather not spend my first day of feeling remotely human trailing up and down the Thames picking up rubbish. Can't you use the homeless network?" He asks with a tired sigh..

"They are to sloppy, not careful enough. I need someone who can label properly, I need you John." And that is the magic word. It is like a code punched into John's subconscious by Sherlock's dexterous fingers. When Sherlock says those three words John is helpless to refrain from obeying. 'I need you' automatically triggers John's most desperate need to help, to be useful… to anyone but particularly to Sherlock and he automatically nods, picks up the necessary supplies along with his jacket and heads out the door.

He has absolutely no idea why Sherlock needs him to clean up the Thames path but he trusts that in one way or another it is of vital importance.

Two hours and forty-six cigarette butts later John is exhausted. His illness, though now abated is catching up with him and he is desperately aware that he has eaten little for the whole weekend. He is beginning to seriously contemplate going into a coffee shop to have a rest when his phone pings with a text message.

'I have solved it. Cigarette buts no longer needed. Come home. SH' he reads and frustration surges in his chest. He has been wasting the past couple of hours completely. He is partially angry because he could have been sat at home with a cup of tea, watching telly or reading the morning paper instead of dragging himself wearily along the shore of the Thames searching for litter. However he is more angry and a little sad at finding himself completely mistaken in his notion that Sherlock had any need for him. Sending him out to look for cigarette butts was tantamount to that ancient trick of having panicked relatives boil water when a woman goes into labour… He had not been needed at all.

John remembers the early conversation he had with Sherlock about his role in Sherlock's mad crime solving antics. He had jokingly asked if he was just a substitute for the skull Mrs Hudson tried to confiscate from Sherlock and his friend had responded by reassuring him that he was doing fine… today that phrase takes on a whole new meaning. John is doing fine imitating an inanimate object… he is doing fine in being so inactive and unimportant that he is in fact able to respond in no way at all when the genius thishrows wonderful deductions at him… John is essentially a skull… a dead and unresponsive skull, and it hurts to try to accept it.

Heart beating hard against his chest John pushes himself forward, dumping the bags of cigarette butts in a bin and makes his way up the steps to the footbridge that will bring him over to Embankment tube station. He is almost at the top when a man touches his shoulder halting him in his steps.

"John Watson" the voice says, gaining his attention. "If you don't tell him, things will get worse… consider this a warning"

And John knows that voice and it only takes a second to register from where and an image of the pub toilet from two weeks ago flashes in the back of John's mind as he looks into the eyes of a tall, well-built young man with short cropped dark hair and an angry glint in his eyes.

Without a moment's hesitation the man kicks out impacting with John's knee which bends unnaturally and sends him toppling backwards down the stairs. John let's out a strangled scream which is swiftly cut short as he slams into the stairs and the wind is knocked out of him. His head bounces off the steps and he sees stars but instincts cut in and he throws his arms out to stop the fall and comes to a rest in the middle of the stair with a painful grunt.

He lies still, panting and gasping for air as he tries to get his bearings. Suddenly people are swarming in around him, leaning down, touching him and it feels uncomfortable. He tries to sit down but he has come to rest with his head pointing down the stairs and his legs twisted out to either side and sitting just isn't an option at the moment.

"Are you alright?" a very calm voice above him asks and he looks up at the kind face of a woman in her forties, wearing a very colourful jumper. John just blinks up at her trying to collect himself.

"Don't move. I'm a nurse… I can help. What hurts" she asks and John can tell that she is experienced in her job, this is not her first time dealing with an injured patient on her own.

"Right leg, knee… dislocated or broken I don't know. Hurts like holy hell" he gasps.

"You've obviously hit your head… do you feel dizzy at all… nauseous…" she asked as she presses a paper towel she had removed from her purse against the back of his head. He hisses in pain as she presses against the wound he has not yet had time to identify.

"Yes, fuck… yes… don't do that… " he moanes as the world tils slightly while waves of pain wash over him from his head and knee simultaneously colliding somewhere near his groin and making him want to hurl.

"Sorry, you probably have a concussion. There's an ambulance on the way." The woman soothes, easing up on the pressure a little.

John wished someone would help him to turn into a more comfortable angle… lying on the stairs with his head pointing downward all the blood is rushing to his head and it makes him feel even more dizzy, a painful pounding establishing itself at the top of his spine. "Please help me move… I think I might pass out." He whispers and the woman shakes her head. No, we're not moving you until the paramedics get here. I know it hurts but you have to stay still.

Two minutes later and John really wishes that he had been right in his assessment when he said he might pass out… His head is pounding… his knee feels like someone is twisting a knife inside it and he can't focus properly on anything…. There is just to much dull pain and way to many people pressing in on him from all sides with worried looks.

"Can I call anyone for you, someone to meet you at the hospital?" the woman at his head asks as she puts something soft under his head to cushion it. He thinks of Sherlock, of the threat that the toilet man had made… but he knows that telling Sherlock something is unavoidable… judging by the state of his knee he will be on crutches for a good few weeks at the least so he will have to decide on what to tell Sherlock… he honestly doesn't know and he is secretly a little relieved at the woman's offer to call for him. "Sherlock." He gasps. "Speed dial one… tell him to meet me at St Thomas' A&E… that's where they'll take me"

The woman smiles down at him a hand carefully brushing his cheek as he looks up at her gritting his teeth against the pain, unwilling to show his discomfort. "I know, I work there." She says as she slipps the phone out of his pocket just as the sirens of the ambulance make themselves known above the din of the nattering crowd which has gathered to gawp at the man sprawled across the steps of the staircase.

John feels tired and frustrated…. He hurts more than he knows how to put into words… but more than anything he is furiously angry. How dare this man try to control him, what makes him think John will be willing to be a pawn in a war against Sherlock…. It is nog going to happen… while before he had wondered if it wouldn't be best to tell Sherlock about what was going on, about the threats, the problems at work… the possible poisoning… now he was determined… this man would not win… he would not speak a word of what had happened… Sherlock would not know.


	7. a broken knee

**Chapter Beta'd by** **Swimmergirl0726.**

When John is brought back to A&E after having his knee and back x-rayed he can tell that Sherlock has arrived. There is a marked tension in the air and one of the nurses is slumped in a chair crying with her head in her hands.

John looks up at the nurse pushing his cot 'There will be a tall, handsome, dark-haired man with an overly dramatic coat around somewhere causing havoc. If you bring him to me he will be marginally less bothersome.' He informs the nurse and smiles up at her as she gives him a puzzled look.

'Your very own tall, dark stranger?' She jokes and John chuckles slightly.

'More strange than stranger. He's my flatmate.' He corrects and it is the nurse's turn to laugh.

'I'll get him for you.' She promises as she locks the wheels of the cot and leaves John alone in the exam room.

Two minutes later Sherlock comes pelting through the door looking every bit the romantic hero that the nurse had suggested he was, but without his usual coat.

'What happened? That stupid woman said you fell down some stairs.' Sherlock fixes him with examining eyes.

'That would be an accurate description. I must have slipped on something, stupid.' He lies, hoping that he will be convincing enough for Sherlock to believe him.

Sherlock hums slightly and frowns down at John as he comes to stand by the cot. The look on his face changes to one of mild concern as he registers the bandage round John's head and the pain etched on his face.

'How bad?' He asks and his voice is unusually soft and gentle.

John sighs 'I suspect I will be stuck here overnight. I hit my head pretty hard and my knee is screwed up. Possibly broken. I'm waiting for the doctor to arrive with the x-rays, but judging by the way it bent when I fell I suspect it might turn out to be less than pretty.'

Sherlock nods in sympathy and lifts the blanket from John's legs to look at his injured knee. It is swollen and gradually turning purple. It is being held immobilised by some sort of splint and Sherlock has no doubt that it is terribly painful.

'How's the back?' He asks as he put's the blanket down again.

'How did you… never mind. It hurts, they've x-rayed it but I doubt anything's broken, just badly bruised. I won't be much use to you for a while I'm afraid' John doesn't look at Sherlock as he answers. He already felt useless enough before ending up with a busted knee.

It is another half an hour before the doctor arrives. Half an hour of Sherlock pacing up and down in the confined space and John trying desperately to not shout at him as he grows more and more frustrated with his flat mate's nervous energy. He wishes he could tell Sherlock to just sit down, but there is no chair in the room so it's not an option.

When the doctor finally arrives they both breathe a sigh of relief. 'I'm Doctor Wilsell.' he says politely extending his hand, first to John who shakes it and then to Sherlock who ignores it. 'I have your x-rays. I thought you might want to see them since I noticed you're a doctor yourself' Wilsell offers and snaps the x-rays up on the lighting board on the wall. 'I'm afraid it's not great news.' He warns as he flicks the light on.

John can see straight away what Wilsell means. The patella has snapped clean in two and there is a crooked line running through the Tibia, suggesting a fracture there as well. 'Damn,' he curses, fists clenching in his lap as he takes in what this means. 'The MRI showed that you also have a tear in the Lateral Collateral ligament,' the doctor explains and John nods as he continues. 'I'll schedule you for surgery as soon as possible.' Wilsell informs him as he replaces the x-rays of John's knee with those of his back. 'These, on the other hand, look much better.' He smiles and John lets out a small sigh of relief as he studies the pictures and finds his spine and ribcage intact. 'I'll send a nurse in as soon as we have a bed for you upstairs.' The doctor assures him and, retrieving the x-rays, he bustles out of the room to arrange for John's admission.

No longer distracted by the doctor and his x-rays John realises that Sherlock has gone uncharacteristically silent. He looks up to find Sherlock studying him with an angry frown. 'Sherlock?' John asks but he suspects he already knows what Sherlock is thinking.

'John, what happened to your knee?' Sherlock asks with steel in his voice 'You obviously fell on your back but that knee was struck from the front, with enough force to break your kneecap, so don't lie to me.' John feels his heart rate pick up as he realises that his ruse has been discovered. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to decide how much to tell Sherlock. He knows Sherlock will be furious when he finds out John has been hiding this from him for two weeks. This is not going to be pretty.


	8. a secret revealed

**Chapter Beta'd by ****Swimmergirl0726**

The silence in the room was all but comfortable. Sherlock was pinning John with his angry gaze and John felt like running out the room and fleeing the situation, but he was obviously not going anywhere with his knee in the state it was currently in.

'Sherlock, it's not what you think-' John tries but his voice falters and he doesn't know how to continue.

'Ok, so you are not trying to lie to me. You have not just been hit or kicked in the knee by someone whom you find more important to protect than me and you are not acting like I am a complete idiot by trying to hide this!' Sherlock fumes, shouting at the top of his lungs.

The accusations hit home to the very core of John Watson as he forces himself into a sitting position. He has no chance of standing but he tries to draw himself up to look a little less vulnerable than he feels. 'I am trying to protect you, that's the whole point!' He shouts, gasping and panting as his lungs press against the bruises on his back.

'Fuck… fuck… I'm gonna be sick…' John gasps as he grapples with the sheets at his side, bringing up a white plastic bag with a solid plastic rim and gagging into it's open ring. He brings up nothing but bile and Sherlock looks on in horror as his friend's face grows increasingly ashen and he slumps on the cot panting and moaning softly.

'It's okay, John, I'm sorry. It's okay… just breath… ' Sherlock admonishes as he rubs very gentle and careful circles over John's bruised back. He has no idea what to do... he finds himself mimicking motions from films and books… trying to remember what he has been told people do when someone they care about is hurt. Because he cares about John Watson… no matter how much he tries to deny it, he cares… he really, really cares….

Slowly the air of panic ebbs from the room, and as John's breathing evens out Sherlock slowly steps back as his own heart rate slows. John is still trembling slightly and his eyes are squeezed shut, but the colour has returned to his cheeks.'

'Do you have a concussion or are you still sick?' Sherlock asks, a lump in his stomach.

'Possibly a bit of both.' John moans and gags again but only briefly this time.

Gradually, as John lowers the bag and lies back against the cot, Sherlock begins to process the words that had just come out of his blogger's mouth. 'John, I don't want to upset you again, but really, what do you mean… how were you trying to protect me?'

John blinks up at him, a defeated look in his eyes. 'Telling you is exactly what he wants. If I tell you I play right into his hands, and I don't want to do that,' John whispers.

'John, if I don't know what is going on I can't help you. If I can't help you I will feel bad- yes I am capable of feeling bad- so please just tell me.' The use of the word 'bad' rather than something more specific and poignant makes Sherlock sound almost like a child and John relents, reaching out to grab one of Sherlock's hands as it hovers above the blankets

'Just don't be angry with me, I did what I thought was best.' John asks, squeezing the hand slightly. Sherlock nods, giving John a wary but quizzical look.

'This didn't just start today, did it John? All those supposed patients the other week… it's linked right? And there are things you're not telling me…' he prompts, trying to look into his friends eyes which are firmly fixed on the cursed bag in his lap.

'I don't know, I really don't…' John hesitates. 'There was a threat, two weeks ago, and after that everything has been a living Hell.' He blinks, holding back the tears that burn at the back of his eyes. 'I'm possibly over reacting, but I have a feeling I didn't just have the flu… there was a message in a cup at the Yard… it's likely I was poisoned,' John mumbles. Sherlock's knuckles grow white as he clutches the railing on the cot.

'And when were you planning on telling me about this?' Sherlock asks with steel in his voice.

'Preferably never, since that is exactly what he told me he wants.' John states and finally looks up to meet Sherlock's gaze. 'When I met him, he said he wants me to tell you what he does to me… he thinks if he hurts me it will hurt you and I wasn't about to test that theory'

A dense silence settles over the room as Sherlock processes John's words. The concept of them is achingly familiar, yet incredibly hard to deal with. Of course it is not true that Sherlock does not feel emotions… he simply chooses not to express them, not to engage in them… but John has changed all that. And while it is still very hard to interpret all the 'feelings' that come pushing in on his rational deductions, there is no doubt that they are there, and right now they hurt.

'Details, John, give me the details.' he grumbled under his breath and watched as John slowly nodded his consent.

'Two weeks ago, that night I was out with Mike Stamford, a man cornered me in the bathroom. He told me you had put the love of his life behind bars. Apparently she was treated badly by inmates… maybe by staff as well, he didn't give me details, but she killed herself when she got out. He blames you, and for some reason he thought that if he hurt me like she was hurt that it would make you feel something like what he feels. I know he's exaggerating, I know you don't feel like that. He's being an idiot to think that he can get revenge on you by breaking my knee, but I still didn't want to test his theory. I didn't want him to get away with using me…' John's voice trailed off.

'I'm sorry, John, he was right.' Sherlock mumbled while fiddling with the blanket on John's legs.

'What do you mean?' John asked looking worried.

'Seeing you hurt, it is unpleasant. Seeing you hurt because of me is more unpleasant, so just tell me… tell me so I can go find this bastard and get him out of our life as fast as possible.' Sherlock fixes him with a pointed glare, but the words sink home to John and he feels a warmth spread through his chest that somehow eases the pain in his head and leg.

'I did just tell you. That's all I know. Oh, and I think he said that she had killed her brother, or at least that she had done something to her brother to get thrown in prison. That might help for now,' John watched in bewilderment as Sherlock nodded and fished his phone out of his pocket. 'You can't use that in here, Sherlock, it will interfere with the medical equipment. You might end up killing someone!' he admonishes and Sherlock freezes for a second.

'I'll be right back, have to text Lestrade.' Sherlock informs him and John smiles faintly as he disappears out the door. Maybe telling Sherlock wasn't such a bad idea, at least now the consulting detective is distracted, has something to work on. Sherlock thrives under the weight of a good mystery after all…


	9. pain and mistaken suspects

**Now Beta'd by ****Swimmergirl0726.**

Sherlock doesn't return and John is not entirely surprised, though he is a little worried that he may be staying away because he is in fact angry with John. Still, there is nothing he can do about it until he gets out of the hospital or Sherlock comes back.

He is brought up to the orthopaedic ward and given a bed in a room he shares with an old man who broke his hip in a fall. He was given painkillers in A&E and by the time he is transferred to the bed in his room he is exhausted and finds that it does not take long to fall asleep.

He is forcibly woken up every two hours by a smiling nurse who asks him questions and then admonishes him to go back to sleep. By the third time he wakes it is to find that his knee has begun throbbing again.

'Are you hurting?' the nurse asks and he nods his head reluctantly. 'I'll get you something for that so you can sleep.' She offers and returns with a syringe that she injects into the shunt in his hand. 'Give that a moment to work and you'll be much more comfortable.' She smiles and John returns it, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

The nice nurse is wrong… the pain remains and John finds it very hard to get any more sleep. He rests, but is unable to truly fall asleep. The pain is making him nauseous and he eventually relents and calls the nurse again, asking for more pain relief. She frowns, but promises she will check with the doctor and returns soon after with another syringe.

It has no more effect than the first and John spends the rest of the night trying to stay as still as possible and not throw up.

When Sherlock returns the next morning with a bright smile it is to find a very pale and tired John with a slight sheen of sweat coating his brow.

'You look horrible, John, are you running a temperature?' He asks while crossing the room and placing a slender hand across his friend's forehead.

'No, I'm just in pain. It will be better once my knee is fixed.' John offers with a slight shudder.

'If you're in that much pain why don't you take your painkillers properly?' Sherlock asks, assuming that John is being stubborn and refusing pain relief.

'I am taking it… it just isn't working.' John grumbles. 'Where did you go yesterday?' he decides that a change in subject would be desirable about now. Talking about the pain only makes it more apparent and he would much rather have a distraction.

'To meet Lestrade,' Sherlock smiled broadly. 'We've got him. He denies it all of course, but we'll break him. I'm surprised at you, John. Such a scrawny little man... I had expected a big brute with good training, not a short family father.' Sherlock teases and John looks at him with confusion.

'Sherlock, he's nearly as tall as you and I would say he probably has ten times your muscle mass. He is not scrawny by any definition.' He corrects and watches as Sherlock's face falls.

'Oh, it's not the husband… Damn, how did I miss that?' Sherlock curses.

'I take it you found out who the woman was then? The one who killed herself?' John asks, fiddling with the controls on his bed to get the head to raise itself and allow him to half sit up.

'Yes. Her name was Charlotte Stoker, she killed her brother after she found out that he had been molesting her son. A very boring case-so domestic.' Sherlock shrugs but John is oddly moved by this story. It makes sense why this man is so angry Charlotte went to prison, he can almost sympathise with his anger, misdirected as it is.

'The only males who visited her in prison were her husband and her two other brothers that were not molesting her son. I guess I will have to look into the brothers, since it is clearly not the husband. Unless he is using someone as a stand-in for himself… that could be possible.' Sherlock ponders but John shakes his head slowly.

'I don't think so, not unless he's a very good actor, this seemed very personal. You should have heard the fury in his voice.' He offers what he can, hoping that what little he can tell about the man will be at least a little useful.

'You should go get Lestrade to release that poor bloke' he suggests, but Sherlock shakes his head and sits down beside the bed.

'You're having surgery, I'm not going anywhere.' He says in a stubborn tone and John actually smiles a genuine smile when he sees Sherlock being so protective.

'Yes, I am, and if you promise to go sort this out with Lestrade I will ask them to let you come in and sit with me in recovery. It would be nice to have the company and we can mull over possible suspects. You can even bring me photos of those two brothers. Although, he did call her the love of his life, so if it's one of the brothers that would make this whole thing disturbingly incestuous.' John offers and watches as Sherlock gradually relents.

'Ok, when is the surgery?' Sherlock asks.

'Sometime this morning hopefully' John answers, thinking that it really cannot come soon enough. He hasn't been in this much pain since he was shot, and at least back then the pain killers worked.

'Ok, I'll be back soon.' Sherlock says as he whirls out of the room with his usual dramatic flourish.


	10. going under, or not

**Now Beta'd by ****Swimmergirl0726.**

The pain would not go away, and by the time they informed him that it was time to go to surgery John was thoroughly relieved that he would be put out of his misery for at least a few hours.

The anaesthesiologist arrived with a kind smile as John was being prepared for surgery. He fussed over John and promised he would be alright in the traditional way of medical staff that John recognized from his own experience as a doctor. John nodded that he knew what to expect and agreed to count down from ten as the drug was pushed into his IV.

It didn't take him long to realize that something was wrong. He went strangely numb, but the pain did not abate… He was terrifyingly aware that the pain really should have gone away as his eyes fell shut… Then the voices around him became clear and terror truly seared through him. 'He's out… let's get him prepped,' the anaesthesiologist said and John knew for a fact that he was fucked…. He was nowhere near 'out', in fact he was very much aware of his situation.

He tried to speak up but his mouth did not move and his vocal cords did not react. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to obey… he was beginning to feel true panic racing through his veins as he smelt the clean antiseptic of the surgery room.

John knew what was coming, and it was truly terrifying. When the brace was finally removed and the scalpel connected with his knee he was surprised that it did not hurt more. However, the relief was brief.

While the original cut of the scalpel was not particularly painful, the following invasion of his broken knee is mind-numbingly painful. As bones are realigned and pins put in to stabilize the broken pieces he tries to scream at the pain. His mouth refuses to work and no matter how much he tries to react, to release the tears burning at the back of his eyes, they refuse to open to let them fall. It hurts… terribly… so much so that he can barely breathe… he can't remember ever being this scared in his life… it was not this painful being shot… not being strapped to a bomb for hours… nothing can compare to this utter terror of knowing that there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop the insane pain of scalpels cutting into his already hurting knee and hands realigning bones that hurt like nothing he can even put into words.

The world spins more and more and eventually his body gives him the relief the drugs has refused him and he blacks out. Pain overpowers him and slowly, gradually, the world goes wonderfully black.

When John comes back to consciousness it is to the slow and merciful realisation that he can move again. His eyes blink, his fingers twitch and he can hear himself moan. For a second he doesn't know where he is or what is going on, and then the memory of the past few hours comes back and his heart picks up. He can feel panic rising at his throat at an alarming rate…

He starts panting as consciousness comes back. He realises he can blink and breath and that is enough to bring faint awareness back to his veins… panic is still, uncomfortably, the automatic reaction to the pain he is still in and adrenaline is pumping through his veins as he tries to regain an understanding of his surroundings.

'John, it's ok… breathe… you're ok,' Sherlock admonishes and it honestly does very little to calm John down, but he clutches at Sherlock's coat, hands grappling at the lapels. The feel of that well known fabric under his hands is a wonderful relief, something familiar, something to ground him.

The ability to move is so wonderful he is ready to thank God in every language he knows just for the sheer ability to move his hands, to open his mouth and he does the only thing that comes naturally: he cries, embarrassingly so. And he curses.

'Fuck… I will kill that fucking anaesthesiologist….' He sobs bringing his hands from Sherlock's jacket up to his face to try and hide the embarrassing tears.

'John, what's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?' Sherlock sounds worried and his gentle hand comes to rest on the blanket above John's chest.

'I was fucking awake… he didn't put me under properly. Christ, Sherlock… I could feel the whole thing. I will kill him.' John sobs into trembling hands and Sherlock freezes as the meaning of those words take effect.

'Oh God, I should have known. This place isn't safe… I'll call Mycroft, we'll have you moved. I'm so sorry, John.' Sherlock's slender fingers are brushing through his hair, his other hand simultaneously punching a number into his phone and this time John doesn't tell him off for using the phone in a medical establishment. He can't bring himself to care about anything other than breathing and not allowing the panic to swallow him whole.

He is vaguely aware of Sherlock yelling into the phone for a brief moment and a nurse turning up to yell at Sherlock, but he doesn't know what Sherlock said to get rid of her. He is so full of adrenalin and his knee hurts too much for him to be able to think properly. He is, however, very aware of Sherlock's hands lifting him gently, the slender arms wrapping around him and Sherlock's unexpected whispered apologies.

Tears still slowly sliding down his face, he nuzzles into the warmth that is his best friend. He still hurts, but at least for a fleeting moment he knows that he is safe. Exhausted with the trauma of the past few hours on top of a sleepless night he dozes in Sherlock's arms, safe in the knowledge that he is finally, wonderfully safe. At least for the time being.


	11. a brief reprieve

**Ok, this will be a bit of an in-between chapter. I figured John deserved a bit of a break… but only a short one.**

Mycroft came through swiftly and mercifully and within three hours John was settled into his new room at a private clinic overlooking the Thames.

John was infinitely grateful. The bed was comfortable, the sheets obviously expensive and the blanket thick and soft. Turner reproductions decorated the walls and a large flat screen TV was affixed opposite the bed with a structure that allowed it to be angled so that it could be comfortably watched from the bed. The window was low enough that he could watch the view of London even from the bed and a large wingback chair was sat by the window along with a side table to allow for the comfort of visitors. More than any of this, what made John grateful was the steady supply of functioning pain relief and surprisingly good cups of tea.

When Lestrade arrived to the new clinic it was to find John asleep and Sherlock sat in the chair by the window with his laptop on his knees. Despite the assurances of Mycroft that the staff at the new clinic were all very loyal and would take good care of John he had sworn that he would not leave until he was able to take John with him. The level of fear and pain he had seen in his friends face when he awoke in the recovery room at the hospital had shaken him. He knew it bothered John so he didn't speak of it but it was clear that the plan of the unidentified man was working, he was upset, angry and even sad to see his friend in so much pain.

"How's he doing?" Lestrade asked as he entered the room looking down at John with sympathy.

"Better. Have you arrested the anaesthesiologist?" Sherlock responded, his eyes still on the laptop.

"He's disappeared. He was only filling in for the regular guy and no one seems to know where he came from. Very strange." Lestrade shook his head unhappily.

Sherlock put the computer away and looked up then. "You should interrogate the rest of the staff. They had clearly been switching out John's medication so there's more of them involved." He stated calmly.

"How is that even possible?" Lestrade looked incredulous "How can this guy get to medical staff in a hospital? Who are we dealing with here?"

"Someone clever and well connected obviously, no clearly not the husband as you know already, we need to widen our search." Sherlock informs and then he stands. "John, sorry we woke you." He strides over to the bed where John is blinking his eyes blearily.

"Lestrade, nice to see you" John smiles fumbling with the controls to make the head of the bed elevate.

"John, how are you doing? Sherlock informed me about your mystery stalker." Lestrade nods approaching the bed.

"I'm okay, this place is great." John smiles even wider. Lestrade can tell he is probably a little bit high from the painkillers.

"That's good. Are you up to giving me a statement?" he asks and John nods happily. Lestrade brings out the audio recorder and places it on the tray next to John's bed. "So tell me about this man." He prompts pulling up a chair, not as nice as the one Sherlock has been sitting in but smaller and thus more easily moved.

"Mmm… "John humms lazily "I met him in the pub two weeks ago. He threatened me… well no, Sherlock through me… hit me… it hurt." Sherlock hissed and Lestrade could tell that he hadn't known about that detail. The drugs were making John more honest than his normally private self.

"Ok, John give me details. What exactly did he say." Lestrade prompted.

"Sherlock got the love of his life locked up. She killed her brother. He molested her son… no… he didn't say that Sherlock did." John hesitated. "She was hurt in prison, hurt bad and this man was upset about it… he visited, he was unhappy… wants Sherlock to feel the same." John shook his head and winced at the pain it elicited. "He's stupid, he seems to think hurting me will do the same thing to Sherlock." John frowns and Sherlock turns his back to them staring out of the window.

"What has he been doing then John?" Lestrade asks, wondering if it is really a good idea to question John when he is this doped up.

"Not really sure." John looks confused "I think he poisoned me, there was a cup in the Yard, with a message… told me to throw up so I did. Still got ill though." He offered and he see Lestrade looking angrily at him.

"Why didn't you tell us John" he asked.

"That's what he wants. He wants Sherlock to know. I didn't want to play into his hand." John explained and then looked down at his knee. "I couldn't keep that up when he broke my knee, Sherlock could tell." John looked a little sad.

"He got injured by three different patients the other week" Sherlock informed, his back still turned.

"Is that true John" Lestrade asked his brows going up.

"Well yes… work has been horrible but it's just work… new boss is rather nasty. Not sure that has anything to do with this though. Surgery screw up might be though, that man really should have known how to put me under properly, that was probably deliberate" John offers even though it is not needed, Lestrade and Sherlock are both already convinced that what happened to John at the previous hospital was most certainly done deliberately.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asks and John shakes his head.

"Nope… that's it..." he offers and Lestrade looks at him with a slight frown. John is sounding far too flippant about all of this… it must be the drugs numbing his senses.

"Ok." Lestrade agrees. I'll get some people on trying to figure out who this guy is.

"Mmm… you should stay for tea, they make great tea." John mumbles his eyes drifting shut. Lestrade watches as his friends breathing evens out and he falls back asleep. That was definitely the strangest conversation he had ever had with the good doctor.

"You're staying with him for now then?" He asks Sherlock who is still staring out the window.

"Clearly. It's not the brothers, he's seen pictures of them both and it's not them. Get the husband to give you a list of any and all male acquaintances would you?" Sherlock demands without turning around.

"Sure. I'll be back as soon as I can" Lestrade offers and leaves the room ever so slightly worried about the two men he is leaving behind.


	12. Coffee again

They kept John in the clinic for nearly a week before they were willing to let him go and for once John did not complain or try to get discharged early. He was so tired and the service in the clinic was so good that he was quite happy to stay there once his laptop had been delivered and he was able to help Sherlock look for the man who was tormenting them.

He spent several hours searching facebook and twitter accounts to look for friends of Charlotte Stoker's. The husband, once released and told he was no longer under suspicion had proved rather helpful in providing a list of all male acquaintances whom he could think of. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that his wife may have had a lover but was more than willing to accept that some bloke or other may have had a crush on the woman whom he described as 'the best person who ever lived'.

For every day that passed John looked a little less haunted and by the time he was let home he was happy to chat and giggle with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and when he turned up to give updates, Lestrade. He didn't feel worried any more. The clinic had taken good care of him and even provided an extra bed for Sherlock who refused to leave. John knew the stay must have been expensive but Mycroft when he popped by to talk to the doctors and ensure that his brother was not causing too much havoc assured him that it was all taken care of and they really didn't need to worry.

John reminded himself to make sure to treat Mycroft more kindly in future. His concern for his brother had obviously come to extend to John as well and he was grateful. Knowing that the British Government was looking out for him made him feel a little bit more safe as he hobbled into the cab with Sherlock to make it home to Baker Street.

They had refused to let him go home until he was stable on crutches and down to a smaller dose of pain killers but he was finally allowed to return home six days after being moved. He didn't like the crutches but they were a lot more practical than the wheelchair he had been confined to for the first few days. It would have been impossible to manoeuvre the chair in the flat so John had pushed them to let him get on his feet and try to move around as soon as possible.

It was tricky and it hurt but when he was finally able to slump down in his own chair at the flat John knew that it was worth it. Despite the comfort of the clinic being back home was wonderful.

Sherlock fussed amusingly over him, making him appalling tea and getting take away.

For three days they stayed entirely in the flat until Lestrade informed them that they were bringing a suspect in who might be the anaesthesiologist who had failed to help John. At that point John told Sherlock that he was going to the station whether or not Sherlock was coming with him and a first step was taken toward normalcy.

The man was not the anaesthesiologist in question and the trip was a wasted one but it did help to put things into something resembling a normal state. Sherlock still hovered but less so for each day as things returned to normal and the need for them to do things separately became increasingly apparent.

After another week of John trying to convince Sherlock to not stick to him like a leach he finally announced that he was going back to work and Sherlock had to give in. He was not happy about it as they had failed to find any man who matched John's description who was at all related to their case but John was adamant, he would not let this turn him into a recluse and he left for work early the next morning manoeuvring his crutches with surprising ease.

It was an uncomfortable week of work. His colleagues still ignored him and the patients looked unpleasantly suspicious at finding their doctor hobbling around in the room on crutches but it worked and John felt like things might be getting back to normal, at least to some degree. When he had begun to view spending every break alone with his coffee cup and lunch isolated trying to ignore the whispers of his colleagues he did not know but he tried not to think about it.

Going home on the Thursday a gang of teenagers found it a pleasant pass time to pelt him with eggs and he returned home to Sherlock covered in raw egg and with a slight bruise on his jaw where one of the eggs had struck him and found that his flatmate went into a complete flurry at the sight of him.

"John! Not again… I told you not to go back to work:" he scolded as he ushered John into the bathroom and onto the toilet.

"Sherlock, this has nothing to do with that man…" John huffed rubbing at his face with toiletpaper to wipe off the sticky eggwhite. "It was just kids having a prank… don't get paranoid" he argued getting up and washing his face in the sink, biting his lip slightly as he rubbed across the bruise on his jaw.

"What have you been up to today?" he asked wiping his face with a towel and Sherlock relented.

"Lestrade brought me a case. It's not important though, not compared to finding this guy." Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

"Ah, when?" John asked smiling.

"An hour ago, wanted me to come to the yard to look at pictures, I refused." Sherlock informed and John's smile widened.

"Ok, let's go now… you'll feel better if you're working" he instructed and with slight trepidation Sherlock agreed.

They arrived at the yard not long after and Lestrade was pleased to see them. Several of the officers enquired after John's health and thumped him kindly on the back something which he appreciated after a week of being treated like he was dirt by his colleagues.

Sherlock was bristling with attention and threw out helpful deductions at an alarming rate making John smile. He simply sat by the desk and watched as Sherlock analysed the crime scene photo's one by one.

Eventually he noticed Lestrade yawning and he pushed himself to his feet. "We're all tired, and I don't trust take away coffee at the moment, I'll go and make some and get someone to help me bring it back… you don't need me anyway." He informed Lestrade and Sherlock who both nodded.

He hobbled out of the office and toward the kitchenette. As he entered an officer whom he did not know was standing by the coffee maker with his back turned to John.

"Do you have enough for another three cups?" John asked and the man whirled in apparent alarm. Boiling coffee flew across the room and John startled dropping his crutches as the hot liquid his him across the cheek. He stumbled falling and wondered briefly why the scalding liquid kept pouring down on him even as he fell. Then it was suddenly over and the other man was crouching next to him looking down at him.

"Are you alright, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." The man, barely more than a boy offered.

John struggled out of his shirt trying to get the scalding liquid away from his chest. "Shit. Ice, do you have any ice?" He gasped as he threw the shirt away and tried to push himself up.

"No, I don't think so… what do I do?" the young man looked unhappy as he crouched beside John who's chest was turning red.

"Anything cold, ice is best, cold water will work" John hissed gritting his teeth against the pain. Is this really an accident he wonders, what with recent events but the young man next to him looks so apologetic as he soaks a towel in cold water and hands it to him.

He dabs at his stinging chest breathing heavily against the pain. He finds he doesn't even really care if this is linked to his previous mishaps or not… it hurts and if Sherlock knows he is hurt he will draw his own conclusions and none of them will be good.

"Give me my shirt back will you" he asks the hovering young man who swiftly complies. He puts it back on and nods to the officer. "Can you put another pot on?" he asks and is rewarded with a nod as he leaves the pantry.

"I think I need some help." He offers as he enters Lestrade's office. "I made a mess of the first attempt, got one of your guys to help me make a new pot but I won't be carrying them back… you'll have to get your own cups." He offers Sherlock and Lestrade who look up and take in the sight of his wet shirt.

"John." Sherlock exclaims and bounces across the room hands grappling at Johns' buttons.

"Don't Sherlock, it's ok, I was just being clumsy, come on help me out" he asks and Sherlock grudgingly obeys but a slight frown appears on his face.

John tries to move as though nothing is wrong but he has the distinct feeling that Sherlock's eyes have grown x-ray ability and is able to see the blisters developing across his burnt chest. The poor young detective on Lestrade's staff surely does not deserve Sherlock's assumptions, he had looked so scared as he handed John that towel.


	13. the blog

"John, why have you stopped writing the blogg?" Sherlock asked as he found John sitting in his chair laptop open but not looking at it, just staring straight ahead.

John looked up at him with tired eyes. How to explain it to Sherlock? He knew that all the nasty comments to his posts were probably from his unknown tormentor but it didn't stop it being unpleasant having his writing ripped apart and nasty comments about his appearance and intelligence posted every day. He just didn't need it. It was enough to have to deal with the cruel jibes at work, he didn't want to spend his evenings wallowing in the same thing.

"He's got to it. He keeps leaving messages and I don't want to indulge him by reading them" he settled for and Sherlock perked up coming over instantly.

"Show me." He demanded… "Why didn't you tell me, stop hiding things John." He growled as he turned John's laptop around and opened the blog which John had not visited for several days.

He immediately understood what John meant. He was not good when it came to social interaction but he had some understanding of the kind of comments that seemed to upset people in general. He did understand the concept of bullying even if he couldn't quite comprehend the sentiment behind it. Although he had some idea that the pain it involved may be in some way similar to the ache he felt every time he saw John's face grow tight with pain as he stumbled through the flat on his slowly healing knee.

The comments appeared to be from a multitude of people but they had only one mission, to humiliate the writer of the blog. Any literary or political allusions John made were ripped apart, making him sound more unintelligent than even Sherlock thought him. John's height was frequently referenced as a weakness, as was his relationship to Sherlock which was described as needy, pathetic, submissive and a whole slew of other words indicating John's lesser worth which although Sherlock could remember using a few of them himself at times he really did not associate with his flatmate.

Sherlock knew though he could not quite register why that comments like 'less than a man' and 'utterly pathetic' or 'ugly as sin' and even 'disgusting freak' were bad. He had heard John defend Sherlock when such comments had been directed at him and he had the distinct feeling that John might currently need someone to defend him against the words on his blog even though they were just words. John seemed to care about words.

Sherlock tried… for two hours that night… he would write responses to the nasty comments on John's blog, and then he would erase them.

"Doesn't he know that he looks pathetic next to the detective, he's ugly as sin… looks like a little runt next to Sherlock"…

Sherlock cringes as he tries to form a reply… "John is not ugly, he is striking and strong. His loyalty does not make him resemble a dog, it makes him good, strong, dependable… " and then he wonders if any of those words will actually portray John in a proper light and he deletes the whole post.

In the end he posts nothing. He watches John limp to his bedroom without having written another post. Watch him pick at his dinner without really eating and he knows… knows for certain that his lack of understanding of sentiment is a problem right now. Because his inability to write something useful to protect his friend is causing John to withdraw, and John's pain reverberates through him as though it was being cut into Sherlock with a knife.

Maybe, he thinks… he is learning… maybe what he feels for John is sentiment. This unexpected anger and pain at watching his best friend isolate himself and hide away from the cruelty of the outside world may be him experiencing sentiment.

He is vaguely aware that John would not like this, that he would claim that it meant the strange man who was causing all this had won and Sherlock would have to agree. What he is feeling is not good, it is not something he would wish on anyone. He also has the feeling that he has to hide it from John for that very reason. He needs to not let John know just how much he feels like tearing his hair out when he sees John flinching as someone goes to touch him or avoiding his blog, which he used to love, just so he won't see the nasty comments posted.

So in the end they both try to hide. John tries to hide his discomfort at the cruel remarks of friends and people he has never met. He tries to hide the burning pain as the blisters on his chest burst and a mild infection sets in, making him weak and feverish.

Sherlock tries to hide the fact that he can see John's pain, that he isn't oblivious to the slight sheen of sweat on his friend's forehead or the pained look as he forces himself to avoid as much of the internet as possible as he answers his e-mails.

In the end a very uncomfortable silence settles over 221B Baker Street as both flatmates try to protect each other and fails miserably.


	14. Sticks and Stones

John is sorely tempted to resign his position at the clinic to avoid any further humiliation. In the last week it has gotten worse.

He feels at a loss as to how his previously nice colleagues might have resorted to posting rude images of him in the office canteen and what might have made someone masturbate into his desk drawer and pee on his work bag. It all seems terribly juvenile but it is still unpleasant and makes him feel very uncomfortable.

John knows he shouldn't let it get to him, it is stupid, childish, below him to react to it, and yet it still seems to hurt. He never thought it would be this uncomfortable to be the focus of everyone's cruel jokes but then again he had always been well liked. Somehow even in his most awkward teenage years he had managed to make good friends and stay in favour with the popular crowd even if he was not one of them. This kind of systematic cruelty was entirely new to him and for the first time he was able to experience first hand that the phrase 'sticks and stones may break my bones but words can't hurt me' was entirely fallacious.

Still he soldiered on, he worked the hours offered to him even though they dwindled and ignored the cruel jibes from his colleagues. He tried to be relieved that it seemed that the physical attacks at least had gone away, he had seen nothing more of the dark man from the pub bathroom since his release from hospital and if all he had to deal with was nasty comments at work then he would deal with it, without speaking up because Sherlock was worried enough already.

And then it went beyond harsh words. Richard the male nurse who had been one of the front runners in the campaign to put down Dr Watson entered his office unbidden one afternoon between patients looking a little nervous and clenching his fists uncomfortably.

"I have a message for you." He offers and shifts a little from foot to foot. John stands and hobbles around the desk on his crutches approaching his colleague.

"Richard what is going on? If he's got to you tell me, we can help." He offers wanting to extend a hand to the young man but unable to do so as he needs both to hold the crutches which support him.

"I'm supposed to tell you that you're doing it all wrong. That you are supposed to tell your boyfriend what is going on." Richard says and steps forward with steely resolve hitting John forcefully across the cheek, sending him flying backwards and onto the floor where he lands in a heap of limbs and crutches.

"Richard, please don't" John pleads as the young man's boot impacts with his chest making him gasp.

"He says he'll kill my son, I'm sorry Dr Watson, but you're not as important as him." The young man argues as he lands another fierce kick to John's chest. "If I do this he will help us disappear. I have to keep Simon safe." He offers as he continues the assault and hearing that John nods weakly. He understands… and he knows that Richard won't kill him, he is just out to hurt him enough that he won't be able to hide it. John is beginning to recognise the pattern now.

"Please avoid my head, I've had enough concussions." He pleads and Richard laughs slightly.

"Ok, I'm sorry about this Dr Watson" he offers as his boot impacts again avoiding John's head as promised but impacting harshly with his side. John doesn't fight the beating. He knows Richard isn't doing it on purpose and he tries to shut his mind off from the pain as his boot impacts time after time with his chest and back. Eventually it stops and Richard mumbles another soft "I'm sorry" after leaving the room and John curled up on the floor gasping for air and wondering how the hell to deal with this latest challenge.

He is very grateful that Richard agreed to spare his head as it allows him to stay vaguely focused and he is able to struggle to his feet, or rather foot as he is still in a cast and supporting himself on crutches. It makes moving harder but he is able to hobble painfully out of his office to find Dr Hogg. His new boss does not look surprised to see John in his battered state, gasping and wheezing as he supports himself on the metal sticks which are holding him upright.

"You don't look all that well Doctor Watson" he observes and John holds back a chuckle.

"I've had enough" he informs "I quit, you can take me off the rotation." He coughs uncomfortably and then turns to leave the office fighting not to show his emotions and wondering how on earth he will keep his flatmate from having a freakout when he sees him in this state, and also how he will be able to pay the rent long term now that he no longer has a job to sustain him.

Fourty minutes later he arrives home and struggles up the stairs with more discomfort than usual. It is hard to keep upright enough not to jostle his bruised ribs while on the crutches and he suspects that the pain lines across his forehead may grow permanent at the rate he is going. Still he tries to temper his discomfort to handle Sherlock's inevitable reaction when he tells him what has happened. He really doesn't want to but he knows that it will be impossible to hide either his physical pain or the lack of work from Sherlock for any length of time.

Indeed he is barely through the door before Sherlock looks up from his book with a worried frown. "What happened John?" he asks as he crosses their living room and clasps John's face in his hands. That first slap must have left a bruise, John muses as Sherlock's fingers ghost across his face brushing gently across his cheek.

"He got to my colleagues" John wheezes breathing as shallowly as possible. "I lost my job and got beat up, sorry rent might be a problem." He gasps as he feels Sherlock's arms gently guiding him to the sofa and removing his shirt.

Sherlock's fingers grow more forceful as he prods John checking for injury. John stifles a groan as his bruised ribs are examined and a hand pushes against his sore abdomen. Pain flares through his chest as Sherlock pokes and prods and for a brief minute John worries that he is about to black out.

"Sherlock don't. That hurts" John complains slouching back against the sofa, moaning and gasping. He looks up to find Sherlock's terrified gaze locked with his own. "I'm ok." He wheezes and Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, you're not, we're going back to the clinic, no arguments." Sherlock orders bringing out his phone.

John starts to protest but Sherlock holds him in place and it hurts too much for him to struggle against Sherlock's gentle restraints. It isn't as though he really minds going back to the clinic, it has been the only place he had felt remotely good in the past month and maybe going back there isn't such a bad idea, especially considering the sharp pain in his stomach as he made his way home.

"What's their names? The colleagues who did this to you?" Sherlock questions while he texts Mycroft to inform him that they will be coming into the clinic again.

"Richard Garner." John answers hesitantly. "I've already called Lestrade on my way home. He said they would try to bring him in. He did say that whoever is doing this would help him and his family disappear so he might be gone already but Lestrade will be doing his best"

Sherlock nods and extends a hand to John to help him stand. Slowly they make their way out of the flat and into a cab.

Lestrade joined them later in the evening looking rather sheepish. "Hello, Sherlock, John… How are you doing?" he offered as he entered the room. Not the same room as before but looking very similar.

"I'm fine." John smiled up at him from his half sitting position on the bed. "Did you manage to get him?" he asked hopefully.

"No, not yet." Lestrade looked down at his feet as he answered. "It would appear that the son has not been in school all week and the wife had resigned her job. My guess is that they are hiding out somewhere. I have reported it and we will keep looking but there is only so much manpower we can spare on a single assault charge." He felt truly sorry for his friend but the facts were that assault charges were not high on the priority list, people got beat up all the time all over London and many of these incidents did not get resolved.

"I understand." John says calmly but Sherlock bounces out of the chair.

"John has a broken knee, three broken ribs and internal bleeding and you tell me that catching this nutcase isn't a priority" Sherlock shouts making both John and Lestrade flinch.

"That doesn't sound like you're fine John." Lestrade mutters.

"He's exaggerating." John sighs "The knee is from before, that isn't Richard's doing. The ribs are just cracked, not broken and while they think my liver may be bleeding a little it is not enough to need surgery, they are just monitoring it. I'll probably be back home again tomorrow."

Sherlock frowns at John but doesn't say anything. Lestrade stays for nearly an hour, informing them on what his team has been able to find out about Richard Garner and his family which isn't much. When John starts to nod off he rises to leave. "I will do my best" he promises as he exits the room heading home to his own bed.


	15. going mad at 221B

John isn't back by the next day but after 48 hours of observation the doctors are happy with his progress and allow him to go home with strict orders to rest and stay out of trouble.

Sadly, John muses, it is not like he can do anything else. He is to sore to do anything very active, he has no job to go to since he resigned and he is avoiding the internet like the plague since the taunts have started to arrive to his e-mail as well as his blog and it all just seems like really pointless selfpity.

With no work, no internet and no exercise he is left with little other than escapist entertainment. He tries to read but his mind is to preoccupied and in the end he spends most of his time in front of the television watching old re-runs and bad daytime TV.

The clinic has prescribed him a good dose of painkillers and he alternates between taking them zealously because it allows him to sleep, to slip away and feel very little of anything, and not taking them at all because he is terrified of the nothingness that they bring and the risk of addiction if he becomes too comfortable with the emptiness they provide him with.

And so he alternates between serene emptiness and painless sleep and mindless TV watching and complete and utter boredom and dull pain when he manages to jolt himself out of the black hole that is drug induced rest.

Gradually the pain recedes and strangely John finds that he misses it. It has been his focus and his constant in the past weeks, the one thing that brings him back from the boredom and to be quite honest the sickening self pity that drags him under as he hides from the world, and in all honesty even from Sherlock.

Sherlock, paces, he plays the violin, he experiments and he expects John to react, to shout at him tell him off for all the horrid things he stores in the fridge, but John doesn't. This more than anything has Sherlock worried.

More than anything Sherlock examines every detail of the case which apparently brought this upon them. But there is nothing there. It was a simple murder of a young child molester by the mother of his victim who also happened to be his sister. She was sent to prison for a relatively short sentence and released not that long ago. Her medical records from her time in prison are a sorry sight. The prison Doctor lists her wounds from week to week and there is no doubt that she is undergoing systematic torture from somewhere. Her inmates, judging by some of the injuries, but possibly also guards judging by the fact that there is very little record of anyone ever being punished for hurting the woman. Sherlock knows that if he shared this information with John he would be touched by it, affected, maybe even upset and so he is glad that John has stopped asking questions about what he is working on.

John, has stopped telling him off when he experiments on ungodly things. He has stopped yelling at Sherlock when he makes rude deductions about the things John watches on the incessant TV. John has even stopped forcing Sherlock to eat, possibly because he himself has all but stopped eating, and even a self prescribed sociopath can tell that these are bad signs, that as much as John protests that he is fine the slow but repeated battering of his body and mind is getting to him.

John doesn't say anything, when his phone pings with a text message from an unknown number and it reads 'What are you afraid of Doctor Watson?'. He doesn't say anything when the next day this message is followed by another one 'You don't seem afraid of being beaten Doctor Watson, are you afraid of being cut.' Or the next day when it reads 'Are you afraid of being burned' nor the next when it reads 'Or are you afraid of being violated… I can do any of these'. After that he starts to delete them even without reading them. He knows what kinds of things they will contain and he doesn't want to play into this maniacs hand… so his phone goes the same way as his social life and his internet… it gets restricted to only the most cursory and simple forms of communications.

The always likeable and kind John Watson has become a recluse. Even more so than he had been in the days after he go back from Afghanistan.

Without the blog the cases dwindle, the amount of cases that come their way is no longer as large and Sherlock is more inclined than ever to reject them. His worry for his flatmate is no longer even marginally concealed and he deems almost anything boring and takes only cases which he can investigate without leaving the flat.

They spend all their time in the flat together. Mrs Hudson takes pity and buys food, very little of which is ever cooked or eaten. They are more or less subsisting on tea, toast and irritation with the odd takeaway thrown in for good measure when Lestrade comes over and tries to ply them with cases.

Sherlock paces more, plays the violin all night and hasn't left the flat in weeks. John slowly heals, he attends his physiotherapy and finally arrives back at the flat with his knee no longer in a solid cast but in a strange hard walking boot that allows him more ease of movement. Still they do not leave the flat, they barely speak and especially not about the elephant in the room. In this case not a real elephant but rather the ever present threat from the man they have yet to name. It is driving them both mad but they are both flatly refusing to accept this fact.

**By the way if anyone feels up to Beta reading me I don't have a Beta Reader... obviously.**


	16. Come out and play

The constant being together is grinding on their nerves and they both know it. Most likely it is not just being always together that is doing it, after all they are used to spending most of their time together but it is being stuck together whilst being utterly frustrated rather than being on the usual fun fuelled high of a chase.

In theory of course they are chasing after whoever has pushed them into this situation but it is a half-hearted search since all leads seem to have gone cold. The flat, normally kind and welcoming, is starting to feel increasingly claustrophobic.

In the end it is another message from the madman that pushes John into refusing their self-induced exile. He is standing by the window staring blankly out of the window. Sherlock is muttering something about breaches in the British penal system but John isn't really listening.

It is as though the world around them has gone gradually grey, everything that was once thrilling and exciting and wonderfully beautiful has blended to a grey mass of unexpected cruelty. John doesn't really fear being attacked and he knows in theory that the nasty messages are only meant to hurt him. It is the small things that are getting to him, the personal things. It is more than anything the fact that people he used to count as friends seem to be so easily roped into joining in the taunts.

The comments, of fat and stupid and useless would not hurt so much if they came only from faceless strangers who might for all intents and purposes really only be coming from one deranged lunatic. But they weren't just coming from strangers any more. His colleagues had completely stopped speaking to him although it seemed that some of them still frequented the blog but only to comment that John's apparent lack of writing must be a result of the same apparent breakdown that had had the clinic have to let him go… sad but then he always was rather a mediocre little man.

This wasn't the particular thing that was playing on his mind as he stood gazing out of the window however. Earlier that day he had with a stubbornness that came out of not truly wanting to give up entirely forced himself to get dressed, it was getting increasingly tempting to take a leaf out of Sherlock's book and just lounge around in his dressing gown, and had opened the blog and read through the latest comments.

There was a string of comments that parodied John's appearance, particularly as of late on crutches and looking a bit worse for wear. There was even a rather unflattering cartoon attached which showed John being beated up by a string of patients, little ladies with handbags and babies in diapers. It was entitled 'The runt of the litter'. It wasn't the comments or even the nasty cartoon that got to John though, it was a comment from his sister. 'I'm glad someone finally noticed. I've been saying that he's the black sheep for years. Seems like someone is trying to knock some sense into him… lol. Maybe getting fired will snap him out of his stupidity and he'll finally leave that nutcase of a friend and get a sensible job, something he is actually capable of holding down. Well, I don't hold out much hope.'

He had never got on with Harry so why did it hurt so much to have her join in the game? That was what was on his mind as he stood looking out of the window at the traffic going by. He did not watch the pedestrians, just the heavy flow of cars and busses that passed outside and hence he was only vaguely aware of the man who started to cross the road in front of them in between passing cars. When the man stopped in the middle of the road he assumed he was stopping for traffic but then the man lifted his arm and hurled something up toward the window where John was standing.

He opened his mouth to shout to Sherlock to get down but there was no time for that or for himself to do likewise. He had time for no more than a half turn and a shouted "Sher…" The window shattered sending glass flying around the room and something heavy struck John across the jaw sending him sprawling onto the floor among the remnants of their window.

"John! John are you alright" Sherlock burst out of his chair to crouch down beside his friend careful of the glass and relieved that today he had opted for wearing both socks and shoes, rather than going barefoot which was a regular occurrence.

"I'm fine. Get him Sherlock. Grey Hoodie, blue Jeans. Go." John waved a hand at his flatmate who hesitated for only a second before pushing to his feet briefly glancing out the window where he could see the figure described by John running south down Baker Street. He throws himself out of the door, without his coat or any other outdoor clothing and starts running down the street.

He didn't get him, by the time he reached the street he had already veered off into a side street and though Sherlock tried to deduce which way he would go he lost him cursing as he jogged back to the flat. Now that the chase was over he was a little worried about his flatmate and he hurried back.

John was sat in the kitchen with his bathrobe on, pressing an ice pack to the side of his face when Sherlock came pounding up the stairs. "Lestrade's on his way, we better not clean that up until he has been." John informed.

"How bad?" Sherlock asked walking up to John and gently guiding the hand holding the ice away from Johns face so he can see the cut which John has pulled together with steri strips and the bruise forming around it.

"I'll live. The only casualty is my shirt, it looks like a war zone." He indicated the discarded item of clothing lying bloody and cut up on the kitchen counter. He smiled at his own joke but the smile turned into something of a grimace as it made his jaw ache.

"We're going back out there to search for this guy Sherlock, I mean properly search, not just do research on the internet and make phone calls. If we're out there we can find out more and it might draw him out, if he gets sloppy we might catch him. John said in a determined tone looking straight at Sherlock.

"No John, you're safer here, don't make yourself a target. I'll go out and do some research if you want but you should stay here, I'll have Mycroft send someone over to keep an eye on you." Sherlock argued pleased with his own solution if somewhat wary of being separated from John.

"Sherlock, damn it, I am not a child who needs a babysitter. Besides this is a package deal." He says and holds out a rumpled note which is now stained with bloody fingerprints as John has been clutching it.

Sherlock read it carefully, and then once more to be sure he hasn't missed anything. 'Get out of that flat Doctor Watson. If you and Sherlock have not gone out by this evening I will find myself a new plaything. You have a rather fetching sister don't you, and there is that pretty pathologist. There's a string of ex-girlfriends I believe, it didn't work out but you must still care about them at some level. Or maybe I will do it the way I have with Sherlock, a comrade in arms might be fitting for you… I have so many to choose from... If you hide from me physically, I will break you mentally, just like I'm doing with Sherlock. If you keep yourself safe from me, no one you care about will be safe. '

There was no signature, the font was Times new Roman and the paper generic printer paper, utterly without any distinguishing features. He would examine it for finger prints but it was highly unlikely that he would find any other than John's bloody smudges.


	17. Leaving the lair

Lestrade arrived half an hour later to find that a response team was already snapping photo's of the broken window while Sherlock was busy taking photos of a clearly frustrated John who sat propped on a kitchen chair with his shirt off and his face a distinct shade of pink.

John was pressing an icepack tightly against his face as Sherlock flitted around him with a camera. The bruises from his earlier beating had begun to fade away and were now yellow in places and gone entirely in others. They had however been replaced by a multitude of small cuts which Sherlock was in the process of documenting with a digital camera. Aside from this John's trousers were distinctly blood stained.

"Sherlock, that is unnecessary.' John grumbled trying to swat Sherlock away.

"It is, not, this is evidence. He would have seen you, this is assault.' Sherlock growled as he kept flashing the camera at John, outdoing the flashes coming from the window.

"Sherlock, if we ever manage to catch this guy the police have plenty of pictures of me with broken bones and footprint shaped bruises. They are not going to need this. Look I really want to clean up Sherlock, just talk to Lestrade and try not to be to be… well you know…' John trailed of.

"Sherlock!' Lestrade placed a hand on the young man's arm making him turn around. "Let the poor man wash off, he'll feel better and you'll get better pictures if he is cleaned up. Just tell me what happened in the meantime.' Lestrade took the camera out of Sherlock's hand and guided him into a chair. At the same time John got up with a relieved look on his face and hobbled toward the bathroom.

"What happened Sherlock? John said someone threw a brick through your window.' Lestrade looked at Sherlock with concern. He had seen the gash on John's jaw as he removed the ice pack and made his way to the bathroom. It didn't look exactly dangerous and nor did the cuts across his chest and left arm but this was one more suspicious attack and Lestrade was really beginning to worry where all this was going. They were no closer to catching this guy than they had been a month ago and there was no way of putting a restraining order on someone whom they could not identify.

"I'm not entirely Sure, John was unclear on the details, a bit shook up I guess. He did say the man responsible wore a grey hoodie and blue Jeans and looked fairly young, it was not the same man that confronted him in the toilet. Possibly a sportsman of some sort since he had very good aim and managed to hit John in the face even though a window pane. Of course he could just have been lucky but the previous attacks on John don't suggest that luck is an element, this is well thought through.' Sherlock took a few breaths and brought out the note.

"It wasn't really an attack though, it was a threat, a challenge. My attempts to keep John safe has angered whoever is doing this.' Sherlock looked deflated, almost on the verge of being scared, and Lestrade felt truly sorry for him. He remembered when his daughter had broken her arm and they had called from the hospital. He had felt so helpless, so useless when he was unable to help her to feel better as she cried and complained.

Of course John did none of those things, he did not cry, or complain. He was solid and strong and stayed upright, even under this strain but even Lestrade, unobservant as Sherlock accused him of being, could tell that John had lost weight, that he was not sleeping properly, that there were heavy circles under his eyes, and that he was pulling away, not engaging, not socialising. He had not been to any of the informal events that the Met organised and Lestrade invited him and Sherlock along to in forever. Lestrade never expected Sherlock to come but John had come occasionally, and Lestrade had increased his invites after he had heard what had happened at the clinic where John worked, but he had not been able to coax him to come out.

Well, lestrade knew what it meant to feel helpless in ones desires to diminish the pain of a loved one and he took the proffered not with trepidation. He saw the same look in Sherlock's eyes now that he had seen in his own back then and it was terrifying. Sherlock, the calm sociopath, looked both worried and just a little bit helpless. His eyes kept darting toward the bathroom as though he really wanted to go in there and check on John.

Lestrade's eyes turned finally to the paper in his hand and he read slowly, making note of each person being threatened and wondering at the implications of each. He had no doubt as to what John would do. It would take physical force to keep John in the flat after at treat like that, and Lestrade understood. He may not be quite so self-sacrificing as John Watson but he knew that if someone he loved was involved he would do anything, including willingly making himself a target. He could not help at marvel at the fact that Sherlock had no once been one of the people named in the note. Lestrade had a feeling that this meant something, but he didn't know what.

Half an hour later John returned clean, and once again fully clothed, moving a little stiffly but without the ice pack and with a large white square pasted across the cut on his jaw. He looked surprisingly normal. More focused and determined than he had seemed in weeks.

'Let's get out of here. Sherlock I'm sure you already have everything you are going to get from here… let's leave the forensics to play and go look over Lestrade's progress instead. I NEED to get out of this flat.' He said with steely eyes. Sherlock started to protest but the look that John gave him was not a plea but a visual order.

Together they made their way out of the building and it was a sign of Sherlock's concern that he actually agreed to ride in the police car, in the back even next to John who sat calmly clutching the plastic bag that now contained the note he had received just over an hour ago.


	18. Getting shot at

There are two days of relative reprieve. They take an extortionate amount of taxis in order to go around and interview all the relatives of Charlotte Stoker. The husband once cleared of all suspicion is proving very helpful and they have a long list of relatives, followed by a long list of friends and acquaintances going down to her hair dresser and the teenage girl who used to walk the dog. It will likely take weeks to get through the whole list, Charlotte, despite being a murderer, had a lot of friends.

Sherlock conveniently makes an equally long list of deductions that narrows the list down to half, discarding the other half as 'They won't know anything, clearly.' And they set to work.

Despite the fact that his knee complains with the constant walking John enjoys being out and about. The flat had become too confined and the Yard is not a nice place any more since most of the officers read his blog and have picked up on the change in attitude toward it. Where once they would clap him on the back and tell him something he had written was funny or poignant, now they laugh behind his back and post the cartoons of him in the pantry. The cartoons have started to appear with increasing frequency, is this madman actually employing a cartoonist to do this or is it someone he knows… John has no idea.

He knows Lestrade tries to take the cartoons down and he tells the junior officers off for their taunts but John still hears them. Therefore it is better to stay out of the flat and out of the Yard. 'Leg work' as Mycroft once so elegantly put it is quite calming even when it makes ones knee throb painfully.

Aside from the constant stream of nasty comments which is minimised by not being at the Yard and not having time to go online it is a relatively calm first two days out of the flat. Sherlock hovers of course which is annoying but also a little bit endearing. John tries to remind him of that last part when he wants to rip Sherlock's head off when one of the suspects asks why exactly a doctor has turned up to interrogate him and Sherlock starts spitting deductions at an alarming rate while stepping in front of John as though the poor middle aged woman is about to attack his friend just because she questioned the necessity of his being there.

The relative calm and the pleasure of being out and about means that when the next assault comes it is surprisingly unexpected. They are walking along a row of semi detached houses headed for the main road to flag down a cab when suddenly across the road a car blows up. They both stare in bewilderment and there is a mere fraction of a second before they both move to run behind the nearest car but the sound of rifle fire fills the air and John twists mid stride falling, slamming into the ground just beside Sherlock who feels something impact with his upper arm that makes him stumble and fall to his knees next to his friend.

It hurts but it does not hurt the way that being shot should hurt. It is painful but not unimaginably so and Sherlock's brain latches on immediately. Rubber bullets, someone is shooting at them with rubber bullets, but why?

Yet when John starts yelling he knows why. This is not a physical attack but a scene staged with precision to make John as uncomfortable as possible. John is curled up on the ground gasping, clutching at his previously injured shoulder. 'Fuck, I've been shot, get another medic.' He cries curled in on himself and Sherlock crouches next to him.

The shooting has stopped but John is clearly terrified. Sherlock leans down placing one hand on John's arm and the other behind his head, wincing as it hurts to move the arm that the bullet impacted with. They may be uninvasive but they bloody hurt, he notes. "John, it's ok, you're not in Afghanistan, it's just rubber bullets, it's ok.' He sooths ineffectively.

'Leave me, run' John gasps with eyes pressed shut and Sherlock wonders if he is reliving being shot. Had he actually asked his comrades to leave him behind? If he had Sherlock is very glad that they had not heeded his request.

'John, listen to me. It's okay. You're safe, just open your eyes.' Sherlock wonders even as he says it if there is any truth in that statement. John doesn't seem to be safe anywhere. Currently he is curled up in a foetal position gasping for air, clearly about to hyperventilate and it is not a pretty sight. One of the bullets struck John on the cheek and it is already starting to bruise, a red smudge spreading across his cheekbone, Sherlock brushes a hand over it, glad that it did not strike higher.

'John it's ok, come on please, listen to me.' He urges as he pulls John up into his arms in an approximation of the position they had been in at the hospital after John's surgery. It had seemed to calm him then so Sherlock decided to go for a tried and tested method of comforting his friend. 'Deep breaths, breath with me, in through your nose out through your mouth' he urges as he holds his friend tight against his chest.

Gradually Johns breathing evens out and he looks up at Sherlock with confused eyes. 'I wasn't shot, I thought… Christ it hurts, what happened? ' He mumbles and Sherlock smiles down at his friend, relieved to have John once again back among the living.

'You were shot, but with rubber bullets. I suspect you're quite bruised.' Sherlock offers giving his flatmate a slight squeeze as he holds him. They can faintly hear sirens from somewhere coming closer. The exploding car and the rifle fire was bound to catch the attention of the people living along the road. 'Can you sit up?' Sherlock asks and John struggles upright wincing at the pain of the new bruises.

'We should go to A&E.' Sherlock notes and to his surprise John smiles. '_We_ should. Don't think I didn't notice you got hit as well. But do you really want to? His voice is weak and Sherlock is unsure of how to respond. He wants John seen to but he doesn't want hours at A&E struggling to explain what is going on.

'What if I call Mycroft? We could go to the clinic.' The way that John relaxes at that suggestion is enough encouragement and no matter how much he hates it Sherlock dials his brother's number, he doesn't text like he normally would but actually makes the effort to call… John is worth the discomfort.


	19. Depression

Sherlock knows that calling Mycroft and resorting to his contacts at the clinic is becoming something of a habit by the third time he does so but feeling John's limp weight against his chest is enough of an encouragement.

'John keep your eyes open, are you concussed?' Sherlock offers as he brushes a hand through John's unruly hair.

John blinks up at him confusion written on his face. 'Don't know, head hurts though. I really don't want another concussion' he mumbles.

'How many hits?'Sherlock asks as he allows his gaze to cover his friend who looks decidedly worse for wear.

'Six…I think… one to the face… probably four to the chest and I think… uhm… three in the arm… not sure though… it hurts.' John states hesitantly.

The car that turns up is kitted out like an ambulance but has none of the standard markings making it obviously out of the ordinary. However Sherlock doesn't really care as the medics seem qualified and they are willing to accept his request to go to Mycroft's clinic. In fact they seem to have been instructed to go there already.

Sherlock has his arm bandaged by a stern looking nurse and is then allowed into John's room. John looks unwell but then he has been looking unwell for the past couple of weeks. Sherlock approaches his side brushing a hand over his head carefully.

'Sherlock?' John asks as his eyes flicker open.

'Yes. How are you doing?' Sherlock nods down at his friend.

'I'm ok, sleepy though' John mumbles struggling under the influence of the painkillers.

A second bed is wheeled in for Sherlock and they both settle down for the night. Sherlock is surprised at how tired he finds himself as he stretches out next to John who is curled up on his side, a peaceful look on his face.

The next morning they are both released into Lestrade's supportive care. He grumbles about their stupid behaviour in going off to examine John's presumed stalker on their own, yet he knows they will continue to do so, so his complaints are mostly for show.

'How badly are you hurt? Do I need to be worried?' Lestrade asks eyeing the two men before him.

'I'm fine but John was shot by nine rubber bullets, not six, you miscalculated.' Sherlock says fixing John with a stern glare.

'You got hit too, that arm has got to hurt.' John retorts but is faced with Sherlock's questioning glare.

'I got hit once, you got hit nine times, including in the head. I'm not the one who's been woken up all night to check for concussion.' Sherlock argues and Lestrade eyes them both with a worried look.

'John, I really think we should put you in some sort of safe house, get you out of Baker Street, you really don't look to good.'Lestrade says looking his friend over. John is looking decidedly worse for wear. Not only is his leg in a walking cast and his face is sporting an impressive red stain from where the bullet hit but he is very pale and has lost a considerable amount of weight.

'No, absolutely not. If I'm not out and about he will go after someone else, my sister, Molly, one of my military buddies, I'm not letting that happen.' John comments sternly. He hobbles past Lestrade who looks at him questioningly.

'I've already had this conversation with him.' Sherlock offers as he follows John out the door. 'It's useless. We have to catch this guy, it's the only way to keep John safe.' Sherlock looks genuinely sad as he says this and Lestrade doesn't know if it is caused by John wanting to keep others safe over himself of by the threat to his welfare existing in the first place, probably both. If Lestrade is pained by seeing the decline in John's health he knows that Sherlock is bound to feel even more worried, after all that had been the intention of the mysterious attacker in the first place.

Lestrade isn't the only one to notice Sherlock's concern. Upon returning to Baker Street John lock's himself in the bathroom to get away from his flatmate for a short while. He can tell how upset Sherlock is and it is driving him mad. He hates the fact that the man's plan is working so well. His whole world seems to have turned dark and depressing but the final blow is seeing that it does in fact influence his friend as well. John, is no fool, he is a doctor and he can tell without needing further diagnosis that he is slipping swiftly into a state of depression but what is driving him even deeper toward that slippery slope is the fear that Sherlock might be about to follow him down that path. The fear and pain in his flatmate's eyes has been growing increasingly prominent over the past few weeks.

John sits on the toilet seat staring at the door and hating the fact that he does in that instance despise himself for not being able to fight this man. He knows with his rational mind that it is not his fault, that someone else is doing this to him but it doesn't help. The cruel taunts from his colleagues, from the blog, from the e-mails they surface without him willing them to and he feels stupid, he feels fat, he feels irrelevant, and pointless, and unattractive, and puny, and just utterly useless and without wanting to he starts to cry, shaking with the force of his misery. He wants nothing more than to hide away from the pain. Not the physical pain, that he can handle but the feeling of being utterly useless, of being helpless and unable to control his own life, that is what is driving him into the ground.


	20. Stabbed

John emerges from the bathroom half an hour later with a steely look on his face. 'I have to go out. I need him to see me out of the flat. I'm going to Regent's park for a while.' He tells Sherlock who stares across at him incredulous.

'Don't be an idiot. You're just out of hospital; you look like death warmed over.' Sherlock argues trying to give John a hard stare but it comes out as more of a frightened plea, only reinforcing John's guilt at the whole situation.

'I won't be long but I have to show my face, so he doesn't go after someone else.' John explains looking very tired and defeated.

'Fine, then I come with you. I'm not having you go out there on your own.' Sherlock frowns and crosses the room. John just nods honestly relieved at the company. While he worries that Sherlock will get caught in the crossfire he honestly feels safer when they are together.

They wander together toward the park in companionable silence. Their pace is slow due to John's injured knee. The walking cast is making movement easier but it still slows him down and he finds it puts an annoying amount of strain on his hip. Unfortunately this hardly registers in comparison to the incessant pain from the bruises caused by the previous day's shooting. Every step shoots pain through John's chest making him wince involuntarily.

Eventually Sherlock extends his arm and John hesitantly takes it. It feels odd so be hobbling along with Sherlock's arm under his own but it eases the pain a little and Sherlock doesn't seem bothered by it.

'I think this should qualify as being out of the flat John.' Sherlock argues as they reach the open air theatre. He can tell John is in pain by the constant grimace on his face and he really wants to get them back to the flat as soon as possible.

John nods his head tiredly and they begin to make their way back to Baker Street at an even slower pace. John hates the fact that he is truly looking and acting like a cripple now. He knows that he appears every bit as helpless and weak as he feels.

It is a testament to the way his life is turning out when he is not even surprised that when a runner passes them he feels pain surge up with refreshed intensity in his back. He collapses against Sherlock grappling at his arm. 'Christ…. Help… Shit… Not again.' He moans as Sherlock catches him lowering him carefully to the ground.

'I told you not to go out. What did he do?' Sherlock asks fear written clearly across his face.

'Not on my back… ow… I think I've been stabbed.' John groans out clutching tightly to Sherlock to hold himself upright and stop his back from hitting the ground.

Sherlock eases him down carefully laying him on his side and moves around to look at John's back out of which protrudes the handle of a small standard kitchen knife in a frightful shade of yellow.

'You're causing me to owe Mycroft an awful lot of favours.' Sherlock jokes as he fishes his mobile out to call his brother yet again. He may be playing it light but the blood pouring out of his friend's back and the way that John has gone even paler than previous, which is no mean feat, is making him really rather worried.

'Mycroft, we need another ambulance, to Regent's park, south west corner. We had nearly reached York bridge. John's been stabbed, please hurry.' He urges and it is to Mycroft's credit that he does not question his brother's request but simply offers a swift. 'I'll send one straight away.'

It is not long before John begins to tremble and his eyes drift shut and Sherlock begins to feel panic rising in his chest. 'John, you know better than to go to sleep. Come on, open your eyes.' He pleads and John thankfully obeys, his eyes fluttering open again.

'I'm not sure I can…' he mumbles, releasing his weak grip on Sherlock's arm. 'Fuck… it hurts… so cold.' He gasps and terror truly takes a seat in Sherlock's chest. John is going into shock way too quickly. It doesn't help when John coughs and then let's out a strangled cry blood dripping from his mouth onto the path.

Three onlookers have arrived to gawk at them and one of them kneels down next to John studying him. 'Something's bleeding inside him' he offers unhelpfully and Sherlock feels like ripping his head off.

'I know that you idiot. He's got a knife in his back of course he's bleeding.' he snaps instead 'judging by the angle at which the knife went in he has a punctured lung and quite possibly an injury to his liver, and that would be the second injury to that organ in the scope of a month so it's not good.' He spits out before thinking that John is in fact still looking up at him and can hear every word.

'You should tell… tell them that.' John whispers before he goes completely limp as unconsciousness claims him.

To Mycroft's credit the ambulance arrives after only four minutes. Not the previous one with no markings but a proper ambulance. It must have been diverted from UCH around the corner for it to arrive that quickly. Still it is not quickly enough for Sherlock's liking as John has now been unconscious for several minutes.

Some part of Sherlock knows that watching him panic as his friend bleeds all over him is exactly what John's stalker had told him was the aim of the constant assault on his friend but knowing this only makes it worse. He wishes desperately that this maniac would attack him directly instead of going through John. John may be physically stronger than him, or at least he had been before this attack had started, but Sherlock knew that he would be able to deal with the cruel taunts better, after all he was used to it, people had been calling him names for as long as he could remember and it had never really affected him, well maybe it had but he had gotten used to it, he didn't want John to have to get used to it.

The medics bundle John into the ambulance swiftly and Sherlock is allowed to climb in after him before it takes off with sirens wailing. He finds that the words 'Tell them he needs emergency surgery straight away' are like a knife stuck between his own ribs and he frowns when the ambulance turns toward UCH instead of Mycroft's clinic. He worries that John might not be safe there, it is too large a hospital, Mycroft won't be able to keep tabs on everyone. Yet John needs surgery as fast as possible and he has to trust Mycroft's judgement on the issue. If he has directed them to UCH instead of the clinic it most likely means that there isn't a surgeon available at the clinic and they will just have to make due. God how Sherlock hates making due.


	21. Stuck at UCH

Sherlock paces angrily as he waits for John to come out of surgery for the second time since this madness started. He desperately hopes that this awakening will be less traumatic than the last one. The look on John's face as he awoke from having been conscious through his first surgery will be forever etched in Sherlock's mind.

Based on how John had looked when brought in Sherlock had expected hours of surgery so he is pleasantly surprised when a small female doctor turns up to tell him that John is in recovery and he may see him after having waited only an hour and a half.

They have stopped the bleeding from the liver she informs, Sherlock had been right then but he doesn't feel like congratulating himself on his diagnostic ability. They've also inserted a drain to help John breath properly, if he recovers well they may remove this by the next day but John will have to stay in the hospital for at least a couple of days. He lost quite a lot of blood and his breathing will be affected by the damage done to his lung. The doctor smiles sympathetically up at Sherlock as she assures him that it really isn't as bad as it sounds and that John will be fine.

Sherlock is not convinced and demands to be allowed to see John which the petite doctor is more than happy to oblige him in. Mycroft must have had something to do with ensuring him the privilege to circumvent family only rules. 'Your partner is a very lucky man, it could have been much worse if you had not been so close to us.' She offers and Sherlock nods realizing how Mycroft got him access to John. John might mind, he keeps telling people he's not gay but Sherlock will cross that bridge when he comes to it, right now he just wants to ensure that John is not left alone anywhere where someone might be able to get to him. He wonders if it might not be best to have him transferred to Mycroft's clinic now that the surgery is over.

'What's happened to him?' the woman asks gently 'This wasn't the first time he was attacked was it?' she continues and Sherlock wonders at the stupidity of people in general. John's knee was still in the walking cast, he was peppered with red marks from the shooting the other day and the cut on his face from the brick that had been sent through their window was still not healed and Sherlock had a sneaky suspicion that underneath his jumper John may be hiding more than a few cuts from that window, why could people not draw their own conclusions, it was obvious that John had been attacked before.

'He's been the target of a stalker, a particularly vicious one.' Sherlock explains. 'In the past few months he's been beaten, shot at, stabbed and generally harassed to within an inch of his life simply because I care about him. It's not even him who is supposed to suffer it's me.' The woman frowns up at him but doesn't prod further. It is obvious that the man beside her is very upset about his boyfriend being hurt so she decides she won't ask the obvious question of why he thinks himself responsible for it. It would seem to her that if he is the intended target of the attack on the small blond man in the bed it is certainly an effective attack. The tall pale man before her looks for all intents and purposes as though he is grieving. He does not look like someone who has just been told that his partner is in fact doing better than expected.

Relating the past few month's attacks on John out loud makes Sherlock realise just how much John has been through recently. It is no wonder if he is looking pale and unhappy. After all that is just the physical side of the torture John has been going through and Sherlock has a sneaky suspicion that it is the psychological attack that is getting to John more than anything.

He watches his friend as he sleeps for another half an hour before beginning to stir observing the shallowness of John's slow breathing with trepidation. Then John finally twitches his fingers and his Head turns slightly. 'John, are you awake, can you hear me?' he asks grabbing John's hand in his. It feels surprisingly small in his long slender fingers.

John blinks up at him looking drowsy. 'Sherlock.' he mumbles squeezing the hand that is holding his. 'Don't… look… so worried… I'm… I'm alright.' He continues and Sherlock finds himself biting his lower lip nervously realising that until John opened his eyes he had not felt quite sure that he would in fact be alright and hearing John's laboured breathing isn't exactly putting him at ease.

'Are you in pain?' he asks gently.

'Don't… feel much… of anything.' John replies between laboured breaths 'Hard… to breath… though.' He offers and Sherlock's face contorts in a frown.

'They put a tube in, that was supposed to help. I should call Mycroft, have you moved to the clinic you were in before.' He offers with a concerned look on his face.

John shakes his head. 'No… can't keep… imposing… on Mycroft… must cost… a fortune.' He forces out and Sherlock shakes his own head in turn.

'He's got a fortune, he can afford it.' Sherlock argues but he doesn't push the point. As long as they allow him to stay with John he can accept staying at UCH but he won't do so if they make him leave.

As soon as the staff notice that he is awake John is moved to a proper room, a private room, almost certainly Mycrofts doing and Sherlock is grateful even though he would never say so.

John's breathing remains laboured and Sherlock can't deny that he is worried by it. John and the staff seem fairly unbothered by it, claiming it is normal for someone with a collapsed lunch but Sherlock can't help but feel that the pallor of Johns face combined with the sound of his ragged breathing is making Sherlock himself feel distinctly concerned.

Sherlock stays the night perched in a chair in John's room sleeping very little and constantly worrying over his sleeping friend, hoping against hope that they will somehow find the man responsible for this. It is proving increasingly difficult to stay with John and simultaneously keeping up the investigation. A very small part of Sherlock wonders if he should hand over the observation of John's safety to one of Mycroft's employees but the idea of being separated from the only man he has been able to call a friend since childhood is just too hard and instead he remains in his seat watching John sleep.


	22. pneumonia

Sherlock wakes suddenly to find himself sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair with John sleeping beside him. It takes him but a minute to remember how they ended up there and he is instantly worried as he gets up and approaches John's side.

John looks more peaceful than the previous night, his breathing is still laboured but the colouring of his face is less pale making Sherlock just a little bit less worried.

John wakes up two hours later with a faint smile on his face. 'Sherlock, you should have gone home' he urges but his smile belies the statement.

'No I shouldn't, how are you doing, you sound better today' Sherlock probes and John blinks up at him hesitantly.

'Breathing's easier… back… hurts more though' John looks up at Sherlock as he looms over his bed looking concerned. He tries not to be too worried at John's pained expression and gasping breaths but it is proving decidedly hard.

'John please tell me you're alright, you really look quite awful, your breathing doesn't sound right at all' Sherlock pushed and John smiled slightly in return.

'It hurts… not as bad as my back though…could do with… some painkillers for that.' John looks decidedly uncomfortable and Sherlock begins to feel distinctly fearful.

'I'll get a nurse, I'll get them to give you something.' Sherlock urges as he pushes a hand gently through John's hair, concerned that his help is coming way later than John would have needed.

He pushes the button for the nurses station, unwilling to leave his friend's side and wait an annoying two and a half minutes before a smiling middle aged woman appears through the door.

'Are you alright, you called?' she asks looking annoyingly happy.

'We wouldn't have called if he was alright would we' Sherlock snaps but John shakes his head slightly going for the gentler approach.

'Back hurts… can't breath… can you… give me something?' John asks and Sherlock knows that it is a testament to John's level of pain that he allows himself to ask for pain relief. In fact John spends the better part of that day doped up and Sherlock finds himself having to ask Mycroft to bring his computer in to ensure that he does not go entirely mad with boredom.

Sherlock actually sleeps that night but when he wakes the next morning he knows immediately that something is wrong. His body aches and his throat hurts unpleasantly as he tries to breath and there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that he is ill. That knowledge is swiftly followed by the fear that he may have given whatever is affecting him to John and he bursts out of his chair pushing the button for the nurses station as he looms over his friend.

Even with his own elevated temperature he can tell that John's is way too high. His breathing has gotten worse since the previous day, rattling unpleasantly in his throat and when Sherlock tries to rouse him he only moans slightly but does not open his eyes making Sherlock's heart beat at an alarming rate. 'John wake up, you have to wake up.' He orders and John's eyes blink hesitantly open. As he rises to consciousness the automatically takes a deeper breath which sends him into a coughing fit which has Sherlock turn truly panicked and the nurse who turns up a second later race out to get a doctor instantaneously.

'John, it's ok, just breath, please for me. Sherlock pleads brushing his hand gently through his friend's unwashed hair. John has curled in on himself on his bed his breath coming out in rattling gasps which makes his face turn slightly purple.

Sherlock has his phone out in a second dialling his brother's number. 'Mycroft, I need your help. Please I need you to take John to the place you took him before. He's sick, very sick… I've caught it too… Maybe I gave it to him… no incubation period is all wrong…' Sherlock knows that he's rambling, he knows there is both fear and desperation in his voice as he pleads with his brother but he really couldn't care less the rattling sound of John's breathing and the look of concern of the doctor who turns up and orders a ventilator to be brought in is enough to convince him that every bit of his worry is warranted.

By the time Mycroft himself arrives accompanied by two of his medical experts John is diagnosed with pneumonia and Sherlock himself has been pressed into a bed and told none to forcefully that he has a severe case of bronchitis and if he doesn't take care of himself it is at great risk of him going down the same path as his boyfriend. He still hasn't told John about that particular mixup and he has the feeling that judging by their possible transfer to Mycroft's facility he may not have to.

He still doesn't know if it is his fault or the fault of the staff at UCH that they have been infected by what by the symptoms exhibited by himself and John is most likely some strain of streptococci bacteria, and being able to name the disease doesn't really help at all either.

'Sherlock, you're clearly sick, how bad is it? And don't lie to me.' Mycroft argues holding his brother down as his two associates transfer John to the gurney that will take him out into the waiting, not quite ambulance which brought them there.

'I'm fine, it's just bronchitis, I barely even have a temperature.' Sherlock argues and Mycroft looks decidedly unconvinced.

'Sherlock according to the nurse I just spoke to you have a temperature of 38.2, that is not nothing. Not as bad as John I know but you're still clearly ill.' Mentioning John had been a very bad move. Sherlock had been too out of it to find out how high his friend's fever had risen and hearing that it had reached above his own which was by now making him tremble uncomfortably was enough to send him into another frenzy

'How bad is John's? They said he has pneumonia, how high is his temperature? Is it dangerous?' Sherlock asked ignoring the fact that the incessant questions made him look both worried and needy, he had the distinct feeling that Mycroft was already aware of how attached he was to his flatmate.

'Apparently so far he's peaked at 39.4 but it's still going up. We'll manage it as soon as we get to the clinic, don't worry, he'll be okay.' Mycroft soothed his younger brother who was himself really not looking all that well.

Sherlock stumbled along John's bed down to the waiting ambulance with Mycroft hovering constantly at his side.

When they were finally settled into a room at the clinic Mycroft had sent them to previously it was not long before Sherlock was asleep next to his friend who was resting more comfortably now that a ventilator had been attached to him supporting the even rise of his lungs.


	23. Mycroft and dead runners

They arrive swiftly at the clinic they had been at previously, surprisingly ending up in the same room they had been in during their first visit…

They keep john on the ventilator and he is still on it when Lestrade arrives the next morning looking more than a little concerned.

'We got a message, Christ how is he doing, he really doesn't look great' Lestrade offers nodding toward John's sleeping form. The ventilator is sticking out of John's throat making him look alarmingly unwell.

'He's not.' Sherlock gasps pain ripping through his sore throat 'He has pneumonia. It doesn't look great. He mumbles his face a decided shade of grey.

'Sherlock how are _you _doing Lestrade urges pushing the consulting detective down into his own bead.

'I'm fine, mild case of bronchitis, it's highly annoying, doesn't matter though.' Sherlock argues as he pushes up to get to his friends bedside.

'What message?' Sherlock asks his face going rather red as he manages the question.

'I'm sorry Sherlock. There was a murder yesterday and we got a note.' Lestrade hesitated not wanting to upset the obviously ill consulting detective.

'Just bloody well tell me' Sherlock quipped his face as stern as it had ever been as he argued with Lestrade.

'There was a murder the other day. A nasty one, a stabbing in the back, and well there was a note… for John, it said sorry it had gone too far, it was some sort of an apology… it said 'he' and I'm assuming he is the man we found killed, was not supposed to hurt john this badly the note said, he had only been told to cut him, not to stab him in the back. I'm really sorry Sherlock.' Lestrade offered making himself sound rather sad and hesitant.

Sherlock blinked hesitantly up at Lestrade, highly annoyed at the way that his own illness was preventing him from being at his friend's side and simultaneously annoyed that Lestrade seemed to think that the death of the man who had caused John to be in this place was in fact a bad thing.. Being in the same room as John helped but the constant shivering caused by an annoyingly high fever and the frustrating rattling cough kept him strapped to his bed and annoyingly distracted from the matter at hand.

'Dead, is he dead' comes the hesitant gasp from the bed that held Jon's weak body.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned to look at him. 'John, stay calm, let the ventilator work for you.' Sherlock argues as he approaches his friend who blinks up at him unsurely.

'Christ… Sherlock… it hurts.' John gasps and Sherlock is worried enough to push the alarm button on his bedside table immediately.

The bell brings a young nurse who looks terrified at Sherlock's hard glare but it results in nothing more than a silent call to the security staff who turn up and leave equally quickly. John is quickly sedated and told to let the ventilator do it's work and Sherlock is forcefully pushed back into bed to Lestrade's great comfort. He finds himself much less worried when he has John and Sherlock both fixed into their beds with appropriate apparatuses affixed to them.

The nurse usher's Lestrade out of the room telling him to come back later and Greg is honestly relieved at the excuse to leave as he has no idea of how to help the two men in the room he has just vacated. The situation is beginning to feel decidedly out of hand, especially with the illness he can't even begin to explain the origin of.

A doctor arrives in short order but no change is made to John's treatment. However a nurse appears every half an hour to check on his condition, making a small note on his chart which Sherlock constantly checks. Each time it gives John's temperature which is always above 39 degrees but not reaching 40 and describes his laboured breathing which, even with the ventilator, is causing Sherlock to stay awake even with his own illness, there is just no way he can sleep with John being so ill.

Sherlock sits curled up in his chair shivering uncomfortably as fever wracks his body making him feel increasingly weak. He really doesn't want to go to sleep and leave John alone but he is getting increasingly weak as his body gives in to the illness he can no longer deny.

When Mycroft arrives it is therefore a surprising relief and not the impediment that Sherlock would have expected. He doesn't like to admit it but Mycroft is probably the only person he feels safe to let guard over John in his place. 'Don't leave, keep John safe.' He mumbles to his brother as he allows himself to drift off to sleep finally allowing the illness to claim him.

Mycroft sits watching the two men sleep. He has a long list of things he should be doing but worry for his brother's welfare overrides them all. Sherlock is running an alarmingly high temperature not to mention the fact that Mycroft can tell he has not been eating or sleeping for some days, his frame has been dwindling at a rate almost as fast as his flatmates and Mycroft knows that the cause is the same. It is not news to him that his brother has grown decidedly attached to the small doctor who currently lies beside him with a machine doing all of his breathing.

Mycroft has more understanding of sentiment than his brother gives him credit for and he knows with painful certainty that if it had been Sherlock hooked up to that machine he would have been panicking inwardly. He also knows that that John is just as precious to Sherlock as his younger it brother is to Mycroft, maybe even more so and therefore it is with a heavy heart that he watches John as his breaths are mechanically forced into him.

Mycroft knows that there is nothing more he can do for either Sherlock or his flatmate. He has already arranged for the best doctors and the facilities are top notch and still it feels inadequate. He wants more than anything to be able to save his brother from this ordeal. He knows all to well what it is like to know that the person you care for most in the world is constantly suffering… he had lived through it himself for years watching Sherlock slowly self-destruct in his younger years and he does not wish that on anyone, and absolutely not on his younger brother.


	24. A broken hand

Sherlock wakes the next morning to the sting of a needle being inserted in his hand. 'Hey I'm not the one who's ill.' He argues but he's too weak to really fight the determined looking nurse who attaches an IV bag to the needle she has just inserted and taped down.

Mycroft stands appearing at his brother's side, looking over the shoulder of the nurse as she works. 'Sherlock, you haven't eaten anything since you were brought here, you need nutrition, and liquids if you're going to fight this thing off. You'll be of absolutely no use to John if you end up developing pneumonia as well.' He argues and Sherlock grudgingly allows the clear liquid to start dripping into his hand.

He has to admit that he feels better as the liquid starts to seep into his body. Perhaps he had been overestimating his lack of need for food and water as of late. He had grown so used to having John there to guide him in his nutritional needs, now that John wasn't eating properly it is having a detrimental impact on his flatmate as well.

The nurse leaves with a promise of bringing Mycroft some tea and toast in a second. 'You're still here, won't the country grind to a halt or something?' Sherlock asks his brother before he starts coughing his arms wrapping tightly around himself rather taking the sting out of his words.

'It's the third time I've had to have you two committed to this place. You can't be surprised that I'm worried.' Mycroft prompts placing a hand on his brother's arm.

'I'm not the one who's committed, John's the one who's sick.' Sherlock argues weakly and Mycroft doesn't bother to tell him that at the moment he really is giving John a run for his money as far as being sick is concerned. Sherlock may not be as badly off as his friend but that really has more to do with the fact that John had had a knife pushed into his back recently. They were both running a rather impressive temperature which the staff was fighting tooth and nail to keep down. Though John was distinctly more ill than Sherlock he was also proving a better patient and the nurses were having no trouble administering the needed medication which helped to slow down the course of his illness.

A nurse Mycroft hasn't met before turns up with a cup of coffee instead of the expected tea but he thanks her and sips at the warm liquid. Sherlock has gone back to sleep and is looking rather peaceful curled in on himself. Mycroft hasn't spent this much time watching his younger brother since they were children. Slowly his eyes drift shut and he succumbs to the sedative placed in his drink. When the real nurse turns up with the tea and toast she finds all three men seemingly sleeping peacefully. She leaves her offering on the table next to Mycroft and leaves but she looks confusedly at the mug already sitting on the table, it is not one of the standard ones from the kitchen and she wonders confusedly how it got there.

Sherlock wakes up to the strangled gasps of the nurse and the beeping of John's bedside alarm calling out the distress of his friend. He is instantly awake sitting up in his own bed to see that someone has strapped John down on his bed. John is struggling against the ventilator clearly in distress and the nurse is grappling to undo the bindings holding him down. Tears are rolling down John's cheeks and Sherlock can tell that he must be either in a lot of pain or really frightened. John never normally cried.

John struggles to speak over the ventilator but the way that he cradles his left hand to his chest as it is released is indicative enough to Sherlock. He stumbles out of bed dragging the IV stand with him as he stumbles up to John's side. 'What happened? What did he do?' he asks as he gently takes John's hand in his. It is clearly broken, two of his fingers are awkwardly twisted out at an unnatural angle and it is already distinctly discoloured. It must have been some time since the damage had been done. Sherlock wonders how long John has been lying strapped to his bed with his hand broken and held tied to the bed, it must have been terrifying.

Sherlock notes sadly that it is John's left hand, his dominant one, whoever is doing all this has clearly done his research. There is no other reason to explain why he would otherwise hurt the hand that for most people was less important. 'Get a doctor now, and he'll need an x-ray, just look at this hand, damn how can you be so incompetent.' Sherlock snaps but then breaks into a coughing fit having to release John's hand to stop from hurting him. John is clearly in enough pain he doesn't need Sherlock to add to it by moving his broken hand around.

The sturdy nurse looks down at John's hand in horror wondering what on earth had happened to him. What with him being strapped down it is obvious that the damage had been done intentionally and it takes no more than a swift glance to confirm that his pain medication has also been stopped meaning that he has to deal not only with the pain in his hand but also that of the slowly healing stab wound to his back. Who could be that cruel she wonders as she pushes the button to re-administer the morphine that the man in front of her clearly needs. Then she bustles out of the room to search for a doctor to confirm the diagnosis of the patient's clearly broken hand.

Sherlock recovers from his coughing fit and straightens up to look down once again at John who once again has his hand cradled tightly to his chest his eyes squeezed shut as he waits for the pain relief to take effect. A second later his face relaxes and his hand slides to his side as the morphine wraps him in a comforting blanket of nothingness. He is desperately worried at the state of his hand but right now he is too tired to focus on that, he is too relieved that the pain is finally fading to care about anything other than getting just a little bit of rest.

Sherlock whirls angrily toward his brother who has not yet moved out of the chair. 'Mycroft, for Christ's sake wake up, I trusted you.' He shouts and then has to stop as he starts to cough again. This illness really is rather unpleasant. Sherlock can't remember the last time he felt this lousy, but then again that might be related to the malnutrition the clinic staff has told him he is suffering from or the constant ache in his chest as he sees John hurt over and over again.

He crouches down next to Mycroft noting his slow even breathing and he knows instantly that he has been drugged, is there anyone whom this man cannot get to. If even Mycroft is susceptible to his attack then there really is no one whom they can turn to for help. Sherlock finds himself feeling surprisingly helpless as he turns from his drugged brother to his best friend whom he feels hopelessly unable to protect. What if they can't fix John's hand, what if they can't fix John, he looks so very fragile lying in that bed with a tube down his throat and that disgustingly damaged hand lying on the plush blanket at his side.

Who could possibly be this cruel Sherlock wonders but his mind is slower than usual, drained by the illness and days without proper rest or nutrition and he can't seem to form coherent deductions. Instead he just stands at John's side rubbing his friend's shoulder. With the ventilator in his mouth, an IV in his right hand and his left a broken mess Sherlock is at a loss for how to comfort his friend, or maybe what he really wants to do is comfort himself. He can't hold John like he did before, he can't even hold his hand and it makes him feel even worse not to have the physical contact that he knows would ground him somewhat.


	25. Mycroft gets protective

When Mycroft wakes he finds himself stretched out in his now rumpled three piece suit on top of a bed next to his brother. But surely that can't be right, John had been sleeping there and surely his still needed the bed. As realisation enters his mind and he understands that he has been drugged he feels an unexpected pang of fear at the possibility that John might be no more.

Sherlock is curled up in bed staring out of the window with his back to Mycroft and his skinny frame curled up in bed reminds Mycroft of their childhood. He remembers being left to watch his brother for the summer holiday and coming in to wake him to find him covered in spots and trembling under the duvet, it had frightened Mycroft to see his little brother so ill but once he called their father and told him about it he had returned home and swiftly taken Sherlock to the doctor and Mycroft had been relieved of the responsibility. He wishes he could do the same now but he is a grown man, he can't call his father for help.

More even than that he remembers Sherlock's desolation at the death of their dog. The way the little boy had cried and cried hiding in his room and refusing to come out. That had been worse and Mycroft knows that if something even worse has happened to John and he is no longer for this world it will break Sherlock and Mycroft will be the one to have to pick up the pieces.

'Sherlock? What happened? I take it I was drugged? Where is John?' He asks of his brothe'rs slender back as he forces himself into a sitting position. Sherlock turns in bed to look at him and Mycroft has a vague suspicion that he may have been crying but then it may just be the illness causing his eyes to be so red and bright.

'Yes you were, you've been out of it for at least an hour, well longer probably, an hour since I woke up, since… ' and Sherlock's face goes slightly red as his fear and sadness transforms into anger which as so often before he directs at his brother. 'How could you? You were supposed to keep him safe. His hand was horribly broken, he had six fractures Mycroft, six broken bones in one hand. He's having surgery, that's where he is, again, and if they can't fix it it's your fault.' He yells and it is proof that he is at least physically getting better that he manages to do so without succumbing to another coughing fit.

Mycroft isn't put out by his brother's outburst. In fact he is quite relieved to hear that John is still among the living even though the breach of the clinic which he had deemed a safe place is very worrisome. Mycroft is not so naïve as to think that anywhere is ever entirely safe, any place can be breached if you are clever enough, and Mycroft is clever enough but he really would like to think that this also means that he is clever enough to keep those he cares for safe.

'I'll find this man, somehow, I'll put my best men on it.' Mycroft offers and Sherlock shakes his head angrily.

'Why didn't you do that in the first place?' he snaps angrily but his ire is giving way to tired petulance and it is strangely endearing once again reminding Mycroft of Sherlock at aged six asking Mycroft why he wasn't allowed to seek vengeance on the school bully who had given him a black eye. Mycroft had tried back then to explain to his little brother that there were rules for how to deal with bullies but when Sherlock had come home the next week limping and with his school uniform torn Mycroft had gone back on that statement and taken it upon himself to put the nasty little brat in his place. This had got him in trouble but it had been worth it when he found that Sherlock no longer returned home looking worse for wear on a regular basis.

He hoped that this time he would be able to help his brother without resorting to illegal means but that didn't seem to be such a problem any longer, after all he could almost certainly have the law altered should he find the need to break it, he had done so before. And so he turns on his heel smoothing out his suit with a curt 'Feel better Sherlock, I'll be back.'

**A rather short chapter this time, sorry about that.**


	26. A little TLC

**A little TLC because I think the boys need it.**

Twenty minutes after Mycroft has left a tall distinguished looking man in a dark suit turns up and takes up residence outside John and Sherlock's room. He is armed to the teeth and has the nurses looking very alarmed as they scurry past. He does slightly calm Sherlock's fear for his friend but not entirely nothing excepting having John clearly in his line of sight makes him feel entirely sure that something terrible is not happening to him.

It is some hours before they bring John back and Sherlock is relieved to see that he appears to be sleeping peacefully. But then again that had seemed the case after that first surgery for his knee as well and that had certainly not been a good day. 'Did you manage to fix it?' he asks the woman who wheels the bed in. They've tried, they got a very good surgeon in, if anyone can fix it he can. He'll need a lot of physiotherapy when it heels but if he works at it there's a good chance he will get mobility back.' She offers and in all that it is the uncertainty of words like 'tried' and 'good chance' when really what he wanted was an assurance that of course John would be perfectly healed again in no time.

He stands by John's bed feeling utterly drained when a neat box arrives delivered with a note from Mycroft. 'I saw it prepared myself. Eat it Sherlock. MH' it reads. Sherlock opens the box gingerly but he can tell by the smell even before he opens it what it contains. His favourite childhood meal, a strange combination spaghetti shapes and chicken meatballs that mummy had only condescended to when he had been ill and truly refusing to eat anything she deemed decent food. He had loved it.

How typical of Mycroft to think that he's tastes had not developed from that of his ten year old self. How can he think that Sherlock will be able to eat something so juvenile when John is stuck in bed unable to eat anything with the ventilator stuck down his throat, he questions inwardly and hates himself when he finds his hand unwillingly scooping up the soggy mess and stuffing it in his face. He east hungrily and angrily until it is all gone and it is a thoroughly strange feeling that something which makes him hate himself so much can also feel so good, a true paradox.

When he nearly falls asleep, drowsy with the heavy feeling of the food in his stomach and the draining effect of the temperature he's been running on and off he pushes off the bed and goes to stand by John again. He runs a hand through John's far too long hair. He hasn't been bothering to get it cut and it now lies in strangely long tendrils across his forehead in a slightly shorter, straighter and blonder imitation of Sherlock's own hair. He doesn't like it. Not because it is exactly unattractive but because it just isn't John, same as the facial hair which is progressing from a shadow to something resembling a beard.

Sherlock rings the nurse who comes bustling in and asks for shaving appliances. He can't do anything about John's hair that won't make it look even more of a mess but he can at least give him a good shave. When the woman returns with a disposable razor and a bowl of warm water he scowls at her. That had not been exactly what he had in mind but it would have to do. 'You're good to him.' She smiles sweetly and it makes Sherlock flinch. 'No I'm not, it's my fault he's in here in the first place and he clearly doesn't care what he looks like right now, what I'm doing is selfish' he says sadly and she shakes her head 'He'll care that you cared.' She sings sweetly patting Sherlock on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Sherlock sets to work. The left side of John's face is easy. His cheeks have good slack in sleep and it is smooth under Sherlock's hands. The right however proves a problem. He has to work around the tube of the ventilator as well as the jagged line left by the brick. It is healing but turning into a red scar that surely will not benefit from having the scabs shaved off for the sake of temporary vanity. Sherlock doesn't want John to have a permanent reminder on his face of these months and he searches his mind palace for remedies to prevent scarring. 'Vitamin E.' he finds tucked away in a drawer that contains ways to differentiate self harm from domestic abuse. Wiping John's face he rings the bell again.

He's probably making a nuisance of himself he muses but when the nurse arrives she gives him a wide grin and rushes out to return with handful of small ampules that look like pills. 'Break them in two, it's inside.' She instructs Sherlock who actually makes the effort to thank her. He smooths the oily substance over John's jaw making it glisten slightly. He wonders if there is anywhere else he should be applying the oil but the idea of taking John's clothes off to check makes him feel unpleasantly self-conscious and instead he settles for brushing a hand gently across John's temple. 'That's better.' He mumbles and is surprised to be greeted by a slight flutter of John's eyelashes.

'Thnksh' John mumbles around the ventilator tube and then his eyes close again and he is gone to the world once more.

'You're welcome John.' He says softly and settles down to wait for John to wake up properly.


	27. Not the right John

**This is a bit of a bad chapter, things are drawing to a close now. Warning for increasing depression hints at suicidal ideation and death of an innocent OC.**

The next morning as Mycroft arrives with a parcel John is just being taken off the ventilator and Sherlock hovers looking equal measures scared and angry as the tube is pulled from John's throat and he gags and coughs his face going deep red. 'It's ok, just breath, slow, steady you're ok.' A nurse urges him and he falls back on the bed trying to force his breathing to work properly again. Mycroft watches from outside until John regains his breath and the staff pat him encouragingly on the shoulder offering him a glass of water.

'I see you're doing better, I'm glad.' He says calmly as he enters the room and while John smiles weakly up at him between sips of water nodding his head Sherlock fixes him with a steely glare.

'No thanks to you Mycroft, what have you got?' Sherlock says and Mycroft has no doubt that it is worry making him lash out. Sherlock has become so sentimental since he met his new flatmate. Still he can't help but engage his little brother; it is so second nature to him.

'I see. Maybe you want to go back to an NHS hospital then? Maybe you don't want my man outside your door, or safe food delivered? Maybe you don't want what's in this package?' Mycroft waves an envelope in front of him.

Sherlock bites his lip slightly. Of course he wants all those things. He wants the nice clinic and the relative safety of the man outside the door, hell he even wants the food, especially now that John will be able to eat it to, though maybe not spaghetti shapes next time, for John's sake. But he especially want what's in that envelope if it has any chance of catching this guy.

The doctor and nurse absent themselves from the obviously private conversation with a steely 'Now don't upset him, he needs to rest.' And Sherlock snatches the envelope out of Mycroft's hand.

'What is it?' comes John's raspy breath from the bed and both brothers turn toward him.

'Passport photo's, of every dark haired tall man that Charlotte stoker has come into contact with as far as we can tell. From kindergarten up until her imprisonment. We've tried to include everyone, school friends, teachers, friends, colleagues. Hopefully he will be in there, I've got my bets on one of the ex-boyfriends, a Tony Smith we've got our eye on him at the moment, fits your description and he's not on facebook so your previous search would have missed him.

'Show me.' John seems to perk up, slight hope appearing in his tired dark blue eyes. Sherlock rips the envelope open and hands John the pictures one at a time watching with a mixture of hope and sadness and John takes them one at a time with his good hand and looks them over each time rasping out a steely 'No, not him.' By the time he hands John the last picture he can tell that hope has turned to defeat and he is not surprised when John slumps back in bed turning his face away from them with a soft 'He's not there.'

'Are you sure?' Mycroft asks wondering slightly if depression and blows to the head might not be playing their part in twisting John's memory. He really did think they had got everyone.

'I'm sure. Leave me alone, I want to sleep.' John says curling up on his side and shutting his eyes. Sherlock reaches out a hand to touch him but Mycroft stops him and nods to the corridor where Sherlock grudgingly follows.

'It's not over Sherlock, we will find him. I'll get the CCTV from any attacks that were recorded, for once it's a good thing that we are the most watched over country in the world isn't it brother dear' Mycroft's voice is as calm as ever and he doesn't seem to Sherlock to be in the least bit affected by the defeat they have just suffered.

'I know it's not over' he shouts 'It won't be over until either this lunatic or John is dead and I will not have it be John' he's shouting at the top of his lungs and a nervous looking nurse pops her head out to look at what all the commotion is about.

'Shush Sherlock, he'll hear you.' Mycroft scolds and watches as Sherlock slumps down in a neat chair just outside John's room 'He already knows, why do you think he looks so defeated. Do you know what he said to one of the nurses before they put him on the ventilator? He thought I couldn't hear him but I could. He said it wasn't worth it to try and save him. What does that sound like to you. He's giving up.' Mycroft does look a little troubled by that information but they are both interrupted by the appearance of a harried looking Lestrade approaching them from the corridor.

'What's happened, what have you found out?' Sherlock asks and Lestrade looks decidedly uncomfortable.

'Well, with the death of the runner, it's a murder enquiry now and well it's just escalated. We have another body. John won't like this, it's not one of his attackers this time.' Lestrade holds out a portrait photo of a rather pretty young boy of possibly about four or five years of age Sherlock guesses.

'How do you know it's related?' he asks as he hands the photo back to Lestrade.

'Uhm, several things. He was found in the bath with his wrists cut and a rather sizeable dose of painkillers in his system. Kids that young don't kill themselves. Also uhm his Name is John and well there was a note that said make it the right John next time. We questioned the parents. They only know two Johns but more importantly the boy is named after one of the father's military aquanitances who apparently saved his life, one John Watson.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, he just stares at Lestrade and then in through the window at his sleeping flatmate. This will break him, he knows it. John hates it when innocent people die. 'Don't tell him, please Lestrade, don't tell him.' He begs.

Lestrade only shakes his head. 'You know I have to, if I don't the parents will, the press has already caught on to it, someone leaked it, we can't keep this from him, it won't work. We'll get him help, councelling, antidepressants, he's got through tragedy before.' Lestrade urges but Sherlock isn't so sure.

'Don't worry, I'll tell him you don't have to.' Lestrade promises and as he enters the room to do the impossible Sherlock remains slumped in the chair head in his hands and he doesn't even flinch when he feels Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. 'Go get him, just get him' he mumbles and Mycroft's hand disappears with a soft squeeze.


	28. How to comfort the broken?

Lestrade remains in John's room for some time and eventually Sherlock gets up and goes in there as well. What he finds is a pitiable sight. John has managed to drag himself up into a sitting position with his uninjured leg pulled up tightly against his chest. He is half turned away from Lestrade with his arms wrapped around his bent knee clutching the photo Lestrade had showed him earlier in his right hand and with his head bent into the crook of his elbow. His breath is labored and wheezing and Sherlock can't tell if he's crying or not.

Lestrade stands with one hand on John's shoulder and the other rubbing careful circles on his back avoiding the wound. 'Breath John, breath.' He urges. He doesn't offer platitudes of 'everything will be alright' or 'you'll be fine' and for this Sherlock is greatly relieved, he hates lies unless he himself is the one telling them.

'I think he had a bit of a panic attack, he's better now.' Lestrade looks up at Sherlock who is staring wide eyed at them.

'Why didn't you call the staff, Christ they need to give him something' Sherlock snaps and begin to reach for the call button.

Lestrade, raises his hand from John's shoulder and holds it out to stop Sherlock. 'He doesn't need to be sedated, he needs his friend, he needs you Sherlock.' He argues and John's head slowly rises from his knee.

'Can… speak… for… mself' he gasps eyes still glassy but his face otherwise blank. Sherlock would have preferred tears.

'Get out of the way' he orders Lestrade an pushing the older man out of the way he slips onto the bed next to John pulling him into an awkward embrace. John freezes for a moment shaking his head slowly making the drain still in his shoulder twitch strangely and Sherlock doesn't know what he means. He reaches up a hand and brush it gently through John's hair pulling his head carefully toward him. 'You need a haircut.' He says for no other reason than because it's the truth and at that John's breath hitches and he buries his face in Sherlock's chest. There are no tears, just the soft trembling of John against him and the heavy wheezing of his breathing but he allows Sherlock to hold him and Lestrade looks unnaturally pleased.

'Take care of him. I'll be back but I have a case to solve.' He says and promptly leaves John doesn't look up as he exits and Sherlock acknowledge him merely with a look. Worried as he is about the two men in the room it is a relief to see them actually taking comfort in each other. They will need that in the weeks to come. Even if they catch this idiot tomorrow Lestrade know's there will be repercussions from this.

Sherlock holds John until his breaths grow less forced and he slumps against him clearly asleep. Then he lowers John to the bed and with his arms still wrapped around him lies down himself. He has sworn he won't fall asleep, that he will watch over John but within twenty minutes he is oblivious to the world.

When a nurse comes to check on how John is doing after the removal of the ventilator she finds them curled tightly on the bed. John has managed to twist around slightly and they are effectively spooning on the bed. The nurse picks up the blanket from Sherlock's bed and drapes it over Sherlock to keep him warm. It is a little unorthodox to have two patients sleeping in the same bed but they look so peaceful and she has learned as much as to know that if she wakes Sherlock to take him to his own bed he won't go back to sleep, so she leaves them there.

Sherlock is surprised and a little embarrassed when he wakes up to the early morning light to find he has slept all day and through the night. He is bursting for the toilet. He tries to disentangle himself from John without waking him but is surprised when John shifts to make it easier for him. 'Are you awake?' he asks and John nods slightly 'Yes.' I need the loo, I'll be right back.' He offers and John doesn't respond.

When Sherlock comes back John hasn't moved. He still lies slightly on his side with the photograph clutched tightly in his hand staring out of the window into the corridor.

Sherlock moves back onto the bed and at that John turns his head toward him awkwardly. 'You don't have to do that, I'm not going to panic again.' He says but Sherlock gives him a hesitant smile 'I want to, I can't sleep if I don't know you're safe.' He knows he sounds really pathetic but it is the truth and sleeping next to John had proved remarkably effective, if John was in distress he would almost certainly notice if he has his arms around him.

'I don't want to be safe, John mumbles. Not if it means this.' He waves the picture in the air and Sherlock has the urge to snatch the offending reminder away from him but he knows that would not be taken well. Instead he lies back down and wraps an arm around John who despite his protestations lets him, and eventually Sherlock falls back to sleep. John doesn't he lies staring into space because every time he closes his eyes all that he can see is little Johnny Howey in a bathtub with his wrists slit and despite what he said to Sherlock he knows that it will make him panic again.

They stay there for two more days before Mycroft turns up with the CCTV footage he had promised. Two days of John curled up in bed pretending to sleep. His lungs are improving and that same day they take the drain out and John is allowed a bit more movement. Not that he utilises it. He doesn't eat much even despite the lovely meals that keep arriving from Mycroft, along with notes urging them to be patient and he doesn't leave the bed until a doctor comes in to tell him that until he can safely manoeuvre around by himself he will not be allowed to leave.

That is why when Mycroft finally does turn up he finds the two shuffling along in the corridor with Sherlock's arm tightly wrapped around the smaller man who has an alarmingly ashen look on his face. He has spoken to the doctors, he knows that it isn't so much the physical injuries that are holding John back, they are healing well. It is the not eating and not sleeping that is a problem. They are more or less force feeding him antidepressants but they take time to work. Sherlock is doing well he is informed. Fully healed from his illness, he isn't eating much either but he sleeps like a baby every night curled around his flatmate in blissful oblivion of the fact that the other man is not doing the same. This pleases Mycroft but he knows it is not enough. Not considering the blurry images he has managed to come up with.

They settle down in their room to listen to Mycroft's report but even before he starts explaining they know that he has not caught the man. 'We have images of him but they're not clear enough. We caught him on the bridge but it is a bad shot and John is obscuring him, we also got a shot of him leaving the pub were John was first attacked but he has a baseball cap over most of his face. The fake nurse who came in here and hurt John's hand is a mystery, we have a very clear shot of her but no one seems to know who she is. We'll keep looking though. Your colleague of course we know who he is but not where, surely not in London any longer. The family were renting a furnished apartment so it would have been annoyingly easy to disappear. They haven't left the country though We've tracked down the patients you have filed reports against recently. Two of them admitted to being blackmailed but it was over the phone from a London payphone which is not covered by CCTV. This guy is really good but there's another route I'd like to try, I want you to do an E-fit for us John, get a picture out of what he looks like and circulate it among her acquaintances, bring t in to the prison, he said he visited her there.'

John nods he's not surprised at all that they have not been getting anywhere, that seems to be the general trend of his life recently. Sherlock however looks livid, like he wants to tear Mycroft limb from limb and that is quite possibly an accurate description of how he is feeling.

**Next chapter I think I'll have them figure out who he is. Maybe not catch him straight away though, I have a very angsty ending planned.**


	29. The revelation

Mycroft turns up the next day with an artist and a laptop and she sets to work with John. This makes John more active than Sherlock has seen him since their admission. He is not just going through the motions for once Sherlock can see him thinking, concentrating on something. In the end Mycroft is left with a picture that is in John's opinion fairly accurate.

This coupled with the promise that if they eat well and John promises to return for physiotherapy and counselling regularly they will be released has John stuffing himself with the lunch that Mycroft has brought with him. Sherlock still picks at his, unsure if releasing John is such a good idea. He is worried, worried that as soon as they are back in the flat again John will want to go out, will want to put himself in danger again.

When Lestrade comes in to see them and give them an update with his arm in a sling saying with a chuckle that it would seem that he can't credit John with having all the bad luck John goes positively white and immediately starts to throw his clothes on. They all know what he's thinking and Lestrade crouches in front of him to reassure him. It really was an accident John. I slipped on some cleaning liquid in the office, don't fret, just goes to show we can't credit this guy with everything that goes wrong around here.

John just keep trying and failing to put on his shoe and Lestrade takes pity on him taking it from him and slipping it onto his foot doing up the laces.

'I don't believe in accidents any more.' John says looking sadly down at Lestrade as he fits on his shoe. He has been allowed to take of the walking boot for his first physiotherapy session but since progress was slow he was ordered to make sure to only take it off indoors and only for short periods of time so he's still stuck with only one proper shoe and the inability to bend properly to get it on, it is humiliating. Before he had been able to bend double to reach down, he was reasonably flexible but now his chest and back just hurt too much.

Everyone frets around him and it is frustrating. He has not been alone, properly alone since he can't remember when. They make their slow way back to Baker Street in one of the black cars sent by Mycroft. They don't trust taxis and Lestrade apparently isn't allowed to drive with his injured arm for at least a week. Whatever he says about accident's John doesn't believe him. He knows that the yard isn't safe he just hasn't told Lestrade about the coffee incident which he no longer writes off as a mishap.

When they get back Sherlock offers to make tea but John shakes his head. 'I'm going to bed. I need to sleep.' He argues and Sherlock isn't sure if he is worried or relieved when John does not instantaneously ask to go out. He makes the tea anyway and brings it up to John to find him in fact curled up in bed with his boot stood at the side of the bed. He places the tea on the bedside table for when John wakes up.

John doesn't, or at least he doesn't emerge from his room. Sherlock goes up to check on him at regurlar intervals and finds him usually tucked up in bed. At one point though he is sitting at his desk doing nothing just looking down at his hands ad fiddling with the edge of the cast.

Sherlock sits down on the bed next to him but he doesn't move. 'Are you worried about it? Your hand? He asks and it takes John a minute before he attempts to answer.

'I thought I was. Not sure it matters now. They're burying little Johnny on Friday he says vacantly. Compared to that, what's a broken hand.' Sherlock just nods, what can he say. Of course there would have been people who cared about that John's life just as much as Sherlock cares about his John's but Sherlock can't quite feel it. Of course John can.

'Did you know him?' he asks instead.

'Yes. No. I met him twice. He was a sweet kid. They did name him after me but I wasn't his godfather or anything. It was just a sign of gratitude, and I guess his father and I had a strange kind of distant friendship. I think they just liked the name, really. Turns out it was a bad choice.' He is still fiddling with his cast on the desk, poking at the tips of his fingers where they protrude.

'You saved his father's life right. If it hadn't have been for you there wouldn't have been that John. He never would have been born.' Sherlock argues thinking himself rather persuasive.

'Someone else would have saved him. One doctor is just as good or bad as another.' At that the doorbell rings and Sherlock goes to answer it. It's Mycroft and he looks rather like the cat that ate the canary. 'I know who it is he says even before they get inside the door and Sherlock actually beams at him.

'Come in.' he chirps happier than he has been in weeks and he bounds up the stairs before Mycroft who's face falls ever so slightly realising that his brother probably read a little bit too much into that statement. Still he makes his way up the stairs and into the living room where he stands waiting for Sherlock and John to come downstairs. A couple of minutes later they come hobbling into view John leaning his good hand on his old cane and his other arm resting in Sherlock's now that he knows his leg will just about hold him he doesn't want to go back to being strapped into that giant boot. Sherlock deposits him in his old chair perches on the armrest next to him looking expectantly at Mycroft how has remained standing.

'Don't get too excited Sherlock. I said I know who he is, but we haven't got him yet.' He explains and Sherlock's face falls a little. John looks much the same as before tired and depressed but a little bit curious. Mycroft hands them a photograph of a handsome man in a medical coat looking beamingly into the camera.

'It's him. He's a doctor?' John looks up incredulous and Mycroft nods.

'He's the prison physician and the facility she was locked up in. Ex army like yourself actually. He saw her pretty much every week.' Mycroft explains and now that they all know it is so obvious that they all just stare at each other in bewilderment at their own stupidity for a second. Access to medical facilities, fighting ability able to get hold of explosives and handle weapons, it is all so terribly obvious.

'Go take him in then.' Sherlock snaps standing up and Mycroft winces slightly at his raised voice.

'He's not there anymore. A couple of weeks after her death he resigned his job, argued a family emergency. He's not there anymore. Now that we know who he is though, it will be only a matter of time. My men are looking for him, so are Lestrade's, we'll have him soon.' Mycroft reassures but Sherlock has stopped listening. John's words from earlier are ringing in his ear. This man has all of the skills he admires in John, all except one, compassion for the innocent, and he turns to John and angles Johns face so that he has to look at him. 'One doctor is absolutely, emphatically not as good as another.' He says.

**So had anyone managed to figure out who it was?**


	30. Letters and photo shop

That evening when John hears a bath being drawn and he hobbles outside to stand on the pavement for ten minutes he knows he's betraying Sherlock's trust but he is terrified that staying locked up in the flat will lead to someone else getting hurt. He's back inside again before Sherlock has come out of his bath. He can't go anywhere and Just standing up outside for ten minutes has him leaning heavily against the doorframe and by the time he is upstairs and in the kitchen he is exhausted. Knowing that Sherlock might have heard him come down he makes tea and when Sherlock comes out all damp hair and flowing bathrobe he is slumped at the kitchen table sipping at it with another mug sitting across from him.

'I'm sorry if I'm grumpy. I'm just tired and it hurts.' He offers placatingly and Sherlock gives him a genuine smile. He had not heard John going outside and seeing him in the kitchen actually willingly drinking tea is the most wonderfully normal thing he has seen in forever. He never knew it could make him so happy. Tea drunk however John disappears again but he takes a small plate of Mycroft's food up with him to his room and this also is good.

Before bed Sherlock goes up to check on him again and John is curled up in bed an empty plate on his desk. He seems asleep. Sherlock has a desperate urge to slip in there with him again but somehow it feels as though now that they're home the rules have changed. It once again feels like an invasion to creep into John's bed. Instead he retreats to the sofa and curls up for another night of worrying and fitful turning.

Next day when Mrs Hudson brings up the post and a couple of boxes of food from Mycroft, he might as well deliver them in bulk now that they're home, there are several uninteresting official looking letters for John which Sherlock sticks on the kitchen table and three personal looking ones for Sherlock. After breakfast, or rather late morning cups of tea John had retreated up to his room again saying he was tired and he was going back to bed. This seemed to be all he had done since coming home but Sherlock tried to discount it with the fact that he had been so ill.

Sherlock decides to make an attempt to be nice and he heats up a plate of Mycroft's latest offering and places it on a tray with a glass of orange juice. As an afterthought he puts John's post on the side of the tray as well as the book John had been reading before all this got out of hand.

He finds John curled up in bed staring at something that looks suspiciously like that hateful photo. The something disappears under his pillow as soon as Sherlock enters and turning over John glares slightly at him. 'Jesus, will you learn how to knock, I could have been wanking off or something.' He snaps at Sherlock.

'No you couldn't, your wanking off hand is broken in six places.' Sherlock realises as soon as he says it that this is clearly neither the point nor a good thing to say. Mummy used to say that Sherlock had a talent for having frogs leap out of his mouth.' It had seemed such a stupid thing to say at the time but right now he knew what she had meant as John went pink and then white in front of him.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I'll knock.' He apologises and holds the tray out. 'I brought lunch in bed.' He offers by way of apology and John nods slightly struggling to sit up without jostling anything painful too much. He accepts the tray from Sherlock with a slight 'Thank you.'

'Feeling any better?' Sherlock asks.

John makes a non-committal noise in response and picks up the orange juice. 'Thanks, he says again after a few sips, I'll come down in a bit for some tea.' It's clear that this is Sherlock's cue to leave and he sadly does so. He feels deprived of something vital with John constantly locked in his room and it's not just a matter of wanting to be able to protect him.

When Sherlock leaves John pushes the tray away but reaches for his post. He must be terribly behind with his bills he thinks, he hasn't thought of such practical matters in forever. He doesn't really care if his phone gets disconnected but being without water and electricity would be a nuisance. Indeed the first two letters are reminders for bills that need paying but the third makes him blanch. Two sheets of paper. The top one is a printed latter without a sender and he can see through it that the bottom one is pictures. He looks at the pictures first out of simple curiosity even though he knows this is bound to be bad.

Little photo shopped images. A woman hanging from a ceiling hook, just a cartoon but with Mollies face pasted on it. A picture of his sister and Clara from their wedding, the one posted in the paper, only Harry has no hands and Clara has no head, a picture from a computer game of a young soldier lying blood-spattered and here there is no one photo shopped in instead there is a list of his friends from the army in tiny writing next to it. A photograph of Lestrade lying sprawled on the floor of his office clutching at his arm and grimacing, he knew that hadn't been an accident and worst of all a very vivid photo of little Johnny Howey lying naked in a pink bathtub his eyes closed, his face pale.

John feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, tears are burning in his eyes making it hard to pick up the letter and read the message.

_Good boy for going outside yesterday, you gave someone a day's reprieve. Doesn't give me enough access to you though, not when you can't stand up for more than a few minutes. Tonight you will leave the latch on the window to your fire escape unlocked. If I find that you have I might give you another day's reprieve for being such a good boy. The easiest way to end this for all of you though is just to slip in that bath. Once I read that the right John has bled out in a tub all the others will be safe. What have you got left to live for anyway. No friend, no work, all broken, a broken little toy soldiers. When toys break you're supposed to throw them away._

The world swims before John's eyes and suddenly he can't get enough air. He feels like he's having a heart attack and for a second he wonders if he is about to be saved the trouble of choosing if he will die or not but then he realises, he's having another panic attack. He just has to slow his breathing down, he just has to be calm but there is no way that is going to happen and eventually he hyperventilates to the point of passing out.

He comes too slumped uncomfortably on the bed with the cursed letter squeezed tight in one hand and a cold tray of food beside him. He struggles into a sitting position again having to bite his tongue to not cry out as every muscle and bone in his body protests having been lying slumped over on himself. He tries to drink the orange juice but it tastes acidic and he pushes the whole tray away as slowly gingerly gets up. With effort he straps the boot onto his leg, he can't get downstairs with that hurting as well as the searing pain in his chest and back. With minute steps he moves the tray over to the desk where he tips the food into the bin covering it with paper, he doesn't want to worry Sherlock more than necessary. He opens the window, pours the juice out of it and closes it without locking it. He stuffs the horrible letter into a drawer and slowly in tiny increments he makes his way downstairs to force himself to have tea with Sherlock.

**This story is too much fun to write I can't bring myself to end it.**


	31. The hairbrush

**This chapter needs a warning for rape, I hate to give things away in advance but there it is, concern for ones readers and all that. Don't read if you think you'll be triggered.**

That evening John once again does not come down to eat and but Sherlock tries to be grateful for small mercies, they had at least spent half an hour together having tea although granted John hadn't said much for the whole time, just listened to Sherlock rant on about this that and the other without seeming to really take any of it in.

So he makes another tray for John and brings it up. John is back in bed and this time he really looks like he's sleeping but that could just be because this time Sherlock has knocked. He puts the tray down and gently shakes John's shoulder which makes him jump and cry out in fear. He really was asleep then, John isn't that good an actor. 'It's just me, I'm bringing dinner.' Sherlock sooths and John calms.

'I'm not hungry.' John shakes his head and Sherlock looks at him sternly.

'You need to eat, there's nothing left of you.' He argues an John forces himself up into a half sitting position.

'I've been ill, I'm in pain. It's normal to lose weight; I'll put it back on.' John mumbles but Sherlock isn't having any of it.

'Not if you don't eat. If it was me you would be threatening me with hospital if I ate as little as you're doing. You have done before.'

And John knows it's true. He struggles upright and accepts the tray from Sherlock who grins at him.

'Good, sleep well John.' Sherlock says and squeezes his shoulder.

As soon as Sherlock leaves John pushes the tray away. He puts it on the desk where he retrieves his gun, checks that the window is still unlocked and slips back into bed where he lies staring at the window until depression and painkillers combine to push him into sleep again.

Sherlock comes up to check on him before going to bed himself. It is past midnight and he is sorry when he finds the tray completely untouched on John's desk. He is even more worried when he finds that John is sleeping with his gun clasped lightly in his right hand. Is he really that scared? Well clearly he is.

Sherlock hesitates to touch John again but with the utmost gentleness he pries the gun from his hand, who knows what he'll do with it in his sleep. He doesn't want him to end up shooting Mrs Hudson if she comes up to check up on him. Then he makes his way downstairs where he places the gun on the coffee table and curls up on the sofa. Closer to the door than his own bedroom if John's fears are founded and someone tries to break in.

An hour and a half later the window in John's room slide silently open and two figures slip in. They are nearly upon him when he feels their presence and he whirls with arm outstretched to shoot but there is nothing in his hand. He turns to grab for the gun he must have dropped but it is not there and in that same instance one of the men's hands grab him around the face and force something into his mouth. It is too big, it hurts and John grapples with his one good hand to pull it away to get the man's hands away but he is weak. He's pushed back onto the bed and held still by strong hands which press him into the mattress. It hurt, fuck does it hurt and he bites down hard on the object in his mouth which prevents him from crying out his pain.

Above him stands the man from the pub looking much less attractive than in Mycroft's picture. He doesn't smile now, instead he has a disgusted look on his face as he glares down at John. 'I'm sorry about the ball gag, I had to improvise. It would have been good to have been able to have Sherlock hear you scream but I don't have the manpower for that.' He frowns deeper 'I'm not going to enjoy this he says, in fact you disgust me, but it's necessary to complete the cycle, utter humiliation, that's what she got, that's what you'll have.' He says and sheer and utter terror burns through John's mind. 'Please don't let him, please not that.' He pleads silently with any God out there.

'You do miss certain vital cavities but I guess we'll just have to make do.' The man says and John know what is coming, or at least more or less the just of it. When the hateful man pulls John's boxers down John tries to struggle but it is utterly useless. His injured leg is too weak and when he tries to kick out with his other leg the man wrenches them apart placing a strong knee on John's thigh and pressing down. He brings out a plastic hair brush from one of his pocket's and leans down over John as though he was a science project. 'God you are disgusting' he groans while he gropes John with gloved hands. Yes a doctor, with doctors gloves, how predictable John thinks hysterically.

'She said the worst part of the whole ordeal was that she got wet so we'll have to start with that' He says and as his hand clasps around John's flaccid private parts he has to close his eyes. He tries to drift away, he tries to think of nothing. He refuses to allow his mind to drift back to previous girlfriends doing this to him. He thinks of cases, of the war, of anything to stop himself from reacting but as he has said to so many rape victims before him. 'It's purely physical, you can't help it.'

And then suddenly he can because as the hairbrush rams into him he is sure he must have gone limp because there is absolutely no pleasure now, just burning and tearing pain and the fact that he can't scream makes it even worse. He can't scream and pretty soon he can't breath either. He doesn't know if he has another panic attack or if his injured lungs simply cannot take it any more but there is no more oxygen and the pain slips away as he does so.

He wakes some time later shivering with cold and sweat and fear. Beside him lies another note. _'We'll be back tomorrow. If we can't get in we'll find a replacement. You know the deal'_ beside it they have left the dreaded ball gag and the hairbrush sleek with blood. John already knows he's bleeding he hopes maybe he'll bleed out before morning that would make things easier, not having to do it himself.

**God that was painful to write.**


	32. you'll all be safe

**Ok, another chapter with extra warning, this time for a rather serious suicide attempt so don't read unless your safe.**

John doesn't bleed out. He flits in and out of sleep for a few hours before he finally realises that this hasn't brought the end just infinitely more pain. It doesn't matter though. One way or another, this has to stop, he can't take it anymore. There really is no point in trying to protect Sherlock any longer. There is nothing left of the John Watson who Sherlock needed and maybe even cared for. He can't follow him on cases, can't run around London, there's nothing that says he'll ever run again. He has no job so he can't pay the rent, and with the constant tiredness, the pain and the grey swirl in his mind he's not even helping out around the flat. He doesn't take care of Sherlock any longer and he hates himself for it but he simply can't bring himself to move and act, everything seems so useless. No John Watson is already dead, nothing left now but a cripple, an impediment and worst of all a danger to others.

It is excruciating to get himself out of bed. His chest and leg have been hurting enough recently but now the area in-between feels like it's on fire. Every time he moves pain shoots up his spine making him want to stop, to curl up and disappear, but there is only one way that he is going to make that happen. He reaches over for his painkillers which have been left on the stand beside him and dry swallows two.

He tears himself from sticky sheets, slowly, slowly getting up to lean against the desk taking slow tortured breaths. He doesn't dare to try to sit, it would hurt too much. He pulls out pen and paper and tries to scribble a note. Only fair to say goodbye.

_Sherlock,_

_I'm sorry he broke me. I'm sorry I wasn't stronger. You gave several wonderful extra years. I'm sure this would have happened back then if it hadn't been for you. I'm no use to you any longer, I don't want to stay to watch you grow to hate me for being an impediment. Instead I go, remembering how you cared for me in these last weeks. Thank you. You are the best friend anyone could hope for, the best man I have ever met. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise._

_To everyone else who cares,_

_You'll be safe now._

_John Watson_

The note is hard to write. He has to use his right hand and it comes out as a clumsy squiggle but it will have to do. He doesn't add a title, he doesn't feel like a doctor or a Captain any longer. He is nothing now, but a tool in ensuring the safety of all those people who have been wonderful enough to be kind to him throughout his life.

Getting down to his medical kit to find a scalpel is hopelessly hard but he manages it eventually. He brings out a few extra tools as well, he'll need to get his cast off. One does not slit ones writs through a cast and he doesn't want any risk that his efforts will be seen as not good enough, not staged well enough. Cutting it open brings more pain. One really isn't supposed to cut a cast off when the bones have barely started healing. The surgical cuts in his hand haven't even had the chance to seal up yet. Still out of all the things he's been through this doesn't even rank close to the most painful experience in his life and he cuts away until the cast falls off.

The painkillers are starting to kick in somewhat as he pulls on a pair of boxers with effort and wraps his bathrobe around himself and then retrieves the rest of the bottle. Doing everything one handed makes him feel even more clumsy now that his left hand is out of the cast.

He steels himself for the trip down the stairs and it's with terror that he hears Sherlock moving around in the living room as he gets down. He moves as fast and as silently as he can but unfortunately the one impedes the other and pushing himself he let's out an involuntary cry as he stumbles toward the bathroom.

'John?' comes Sherlock's concerned voice from the livingroom.

'Just having a wash, I'm disgusting. Haven't showered in forever.' John grinds out as he all but throws himself into the bathroom. He collapses on the side of the bathtub without thinking and pain flares up from his bottom making him gasp and collapse onto the floor striking his injured knee and he falls to the side lying gritting his teeth against the pain. Oh yes, this is the right choice alright he thinks as white spots dance before his eyes.

There is a soft knock on the door and John already knows who it is and why. 'John, can I come in, you haven't showered without help in forever, are you really up for it?' Sherlock sounds genuinely concerned, why can't he be his usual flippant self in these last moments, just make it that bit easier.

'I'll have a bath, I can keep the cast out and I'll be sitting down, it'll be fine.' John tries.

'John why are you on the floor?'

Of course he would notice, he wold never not notice something like that. 'Taking my clothes off and turning the taps on, it's easier this way. Please Sherlock just let me try this on my own. I need this.' He pleads and it is only the fact that he already hates himself with every fibre of his body that allows him to not break down in the face of having to lie to his best friend as he pushes himself up and turns the taps of the bath. 'Can't you just make some tea and toast in the mean time, I'm starving.' Give Sherlock something to do, something noisy to distract him, 'I'll call if I need you.'

And that does it Sherlock hesitantly relents. 'Ok, I'll be just in the kitchen, call if you need my help.' He says and goes into the kitchen to see if Mrs Hudson has bought them any bread.

In the meantime as the bath fills John puts the bottle of painkillers on the sink and fills his tootbrush mug with water. He had meant to get some milk to help the pills stay down but this will have to do. He swallows them two at a time until the bottle is nearly empty. Then he gets the scalpel out ripping the packaging with his teeth as he only has one hand. It gives him a small cut across his lip but he barely even notices as he deposits it on the side of the bathtub. He brings out the folded sheet of photo shopped pictures and stares at it for a moment, it is his motivation. Especially the picture of little Johnny, he has to recreate that scene now.

No knife visible right arm resting on the side of the tub not in the water which would make for better blood flow. He really wants to keep his boxers on but Johnny is naked so he doesn't dare. Instead he slips his bathrobe off and lets them drop to the floor before he slips into the warm water. It stings but this time when he sits he is prepared for the pain and he has his teeth already clamped shut. It is hard to lower himself down with only one good hand but the water cushions him slightly and he leans back breathing shallowly.

He looks down at his broken hand helplessly, how on earth is he going to hold the scalpel in it to make the cuts to his left arm? He knows it's not going to happen. Instead he places the scalpel between his teeth and hold it as still as he can as he presses his right arm against the blade trying to blindly mimic the cuts on Johnny's arm. It works reasonably well but the cuts are not as deep as he would have liked to accomplish his goal. As a doctor he knows for best effect he should cut from wrist to elbow but that's not what had been in the picture so he makes three gashes across the bottom of his arm and then grips the scalpel with his now shaking right hand.

It doesn't hurt as much as it ought to and John knows that is because of the painkillers. Now for his left arm, it is easier and he achieves three neat deep gashes that immediately start to release a crimson flow of blood into the bath. It's an uncertain method though and for a little extra measure John plunges the scalpel deep into his thigh before releasing it into the bath and pulling his right hand out again to rest on the side of the tub. It bleeds more freely now that it is encouraged by the warm water and John is satisfied with the effect. He leans his head back and closes his eyes waiting for release.

**Sorry for the cliff-hanger, adding Sherlock to the rescue in the same chapter would have made it too long in comparison to the rest of the story.**


	33. From happy toast to blood and tears

Sherlock smiled as he entered the kitchen and put on the kettle. Sure he wasn't all that keen on John trying to take a bath by himself, he would rather have been there to help out, to make sure he wasn't in too much pain and didn't stumble around the bath knocking himself out or causing himself further injury. Still just the fact that John himself had chosen to have a bath, and he had asked for food, yes this day was starting out well.

He bustled about the kitchen but couldn't find any toast so he bounded down the stairs to Mrs Hudson. 'Mrs Hudson, I need toast, do you have any toast?' he asked with urgency in his voice as she opened the door in her bathrobe.

'You doing one of your experiments again?' She frowned at him a little when she saw him suddenly so enthusiastic.

'No, it's for John.' Sherlock grinned and suddenly Mrs Hudson's features melted into one of sheer adoration.

'Oh, you sweet boy, of course I have toast.' She said and bustled into the kitchen to bring him a bag of bread. 'Do you want me to toast it for you and put some jam on?' she asked.

At that Sherlock hesitated, he had a bad habit of burning their toast but John would like his own jam, Mycroft had brought them some of the fancy stuff from Fortnum and Masons. 'Toast it, but no jam.' He decided, and can you bring it up, John's in the bath, I want to be able to hear if he calls.

'Of course I will...' She beamed. 'and Sherlock, if he's in the bath make sure to change his sheets for him, he'll like that, it will make him feel better when he goes back to bed.'

'Oh yes..' came the muffled reply from Sherlock who was already pounding up the stairs again. He was a man on a mission and he was taking it as seriously as one of his cases, there had to be a science to making John feel better. He put the kettle on, put a teabag in Johns RMC mug and in a plain one for himself. He dug out the jar of jam and the milk checking that it wasn't off so he didn't have to beg Mrs Hudson for that too. It wasn't.

Next sheets, he suddenly stopped. Where did John keep his sheets? They had their own sheets and he had no idea. He pondered going for a search but then he figured that since they had the same size bed and his were ten times nicer he might as well use his own. He rummaged through his wardrobe until he found a set of plain Egyptian cotton sheets, John couldn't object to those. Pulling them into his arms he enthusiastically made his way upstairs. He didn't tell John what he was doing, it would make a nice surprise.

On entering Johns room the first thing that hit him was how cold it was. The window was open and his enthusiasm was marred by a tinge of anger at his friend taking such a risk, there was a fire escape outside that window, anyone could get in. Then came the smell the irony tang of blood, undercut by sweat and the faintest hint of something else that Sherlock associates with crimes of passion and his brain screams at him.

He looks then, really looks, not at the task in hand but at the room before him and he finds the bed a rumpled mess, in the middle a large stain turning from red to brown as it dries, a note, a ballgagg, yes Sherlock knows what they are even if he's never used one, a hairbrush with a bloody handle and there on the desk a single solitary paper with the word Sherlock at the top in remarkably bad handwriting and he doesn't stop to read either note, he has deduced enough and he pelts expensive sheets flying in a swirl around him as he takes the stairs three at a time nearly falling when it turns out that they are not an even number and his foot slams into the landing faster than expected.

Mrs Hudson nearly drops the plate of toast she is holding as he enters the kitchen and brush past her toward the bathroom. 'Oh dear, Sherlock, what?' She asks but he interrupts her.

'Phone, lockpick's, coat, now Mrs Hudson. He's trying to kill himself.' He shouts as he flies past and starts banging on the door shouting John's name. There is no response and he starts throwing himself against the door bruising himself in the process but he barely even notices. When Mrs Hudson comes running as fast as she can manage he has resorted to kicking at the door violently cursing at the sturdiness of Victorian craftsmanship. Mrs Hudson is about to hand him the little pouch of lock picks when one final kick sends Sherlock's shoe nearly through the door as the wood splinters and the lock twists making him able to physically pull the lock from the door and yank the door open. It cuts through the skin on his fingers and Mrs Hudson winces but Sherlock doesn't react.

'The code's 5297 he yells to Mrs Hudson, call Mycroft, he's listed as Government' Sherlock yells and Mrs Hudson starts fumbling with the phone trying to make out how it works as Sherlock stumbles through the door and throws himself down by the bathtub.

'You stupid git.' He mumbles as he crouches by John searching for a pulse. There's so much red and for a single horrifying second Sherlock can't find John's pulse and then there it is and he heaves a sigh of relief. He grabs John under the arms and heaves him out of the bathtub and onto the floor. He's surprisingly light and it is easier than it should be to pull him out and across the floor where Sherlock holds him up with one arm and shoves his other hand into his mouth pushing his fingers as far down his throat as he can. At first nothing happens and then John's body convulses and he throws up.

Sherlock keeps at it even though John brings up disturbingly little which is not surprising since he has eaten little that Sherlock knows of. There's water and dotted among it half dissolved pills but Sherlock has no idea how many to expect so trying to count them is useless. He can tell however that they have started to partially dissolve and this is bad enough.

He hears Mrs Hudson sobbing into the phone behind him but he only catches snippets. 'Mr Holmes… need help… tried to… as possible…' and then Mrs Hudson's hand is on his shoulder. He wants to speak to you, I can take over.' She urges him but Sherlock is having none of it. 'Just tell him to send an ambulance, NOW.' He bellows as he continues to purge John's stomach until the stuff that comes out is green bile.

Then he lowers him to the floor on his back to survey the damage. It feels like there is blood everywhere. Everywhere but on John's face and upper chest which is ghostly white, his lips tinted slightly blue. The cut to the thigh is the worst and he grabs his bath towel wrapping it as tightly around the wound as he can. 'Mrs Hudson, he knows what to do, help me now. He shouts and behind him the old woman drops the phone and crouches down on her knees on the bloody floor. 'Press here.' He orders and with tears streaming down her face she places both hands over the towel and pushes down as hard as she can.

Meanwhile Sherlock rips up John's bathrobe wrapping wide strips around each of John's arms. 'You stupid bastard. How could you? You're not allowed… Fuck John, you're so stupid… stupid… stupid… stupid.' He mumbles entirely oblivious to the fact that he is repeating himself. When he has wrapped John's arms tightly he does what is starting to become second nature. He lifts John carefully and slide behind him so that John is resting against his chest and he can wrap his arms around him. 'Please… oh please…' he whispers and when John's head lolls forward he pushes it up to rest against his shoulder holding it there with two fingers against John's pulse monitoring his friends slow pulse as they wait in silence for Mycroft's men to arrive.

When they hear sirens in the distance Sherlock scoops his friend up in his arms. He never thought he would be this easy to carry but he has lost so much weight it seems to Sherlock like he is lifting a child. He carries him down the stairs and Mrs Hudson follows crying and wringing her hands. By the time the white almost ambulance pulls up Sherlock is standing on the pavement with people gawking at them. Mrs Hudson tries to shoo them away but none of them is aware of the young man across the street who is enthusiastically snapping photos on his camera phone.


	34. Ambulances, sedation and caring Holms'

Once they'd bundled John into the ambulance Sherlock is forced to release him. The medics work efficiently. They ask Sherlock questions. They don't ask John's name, Mycroft must have already told them, instead they ask practical questions about his condition as they struggle to keep him alive.

'How long has he been unconscious?'

'I don't know but I spoke to him… I think… twenty minutes before I found him and that is now nearly ten minutes ago.'

A tube goes into John's mouth once again and oxygen is promptly pumped into it.

'Do you know what he's taken?'

Sherlock blanches. He hadn't checked. The pills he had been urging on John for the past days had been OxyNorm. Slow acting Opioids the ex-addict in Sherlock fills in, he also knows that John had been given another bottle of pills, for emergencies, but not more than once a day the doctor had urged and lord knew what other vastly more terrifying drugs John might have squirreled away in his medical kit. Sherlock had somehow just assumed. He never assumed he always observed but no matter how much he tried to picture the little bottle on the sink its label remained blank.

While Sherlock panics one medic is stuffing heating pads around John covering his legs below the cut and his chest above it in blankets while the other administers an IV impressively into the little bit of John's hand that is sticking out below the crude bandages Sherlock had fashioned out of John's bathrobe.

'Maybe OxyNorm, but I don't know… he's a doctor… and I… I didn't check.' Sherlock's voice is very small and the medic next to him pats him on the arm. 'Do you know his blood type?'

'A positive.' Sherlock is relieved at a simple and practical question that doesn't show off how utterly lost he feels, how his deductive powers seem to have gone out the window the moment he entered that bathroom. If they hadn't then he surely would have seen this for the placating gesture it was. If they knew John's name they surely also knew his blood type. Along with any and every other medical history that could be put into a file and therefore be stolen and stored by Mycroft.

And of course they do. The don't ask how he comes to be marred by old and recent scars. They don't ask why his hand is mottled by fresh surgery scars and yet not in a cast. They do however start to whisper to each other in urgent voices as one of them pushes wads of gauze between John's legs as surreptitiously as he can.

Sherlock shivers. 'I know about the rape, stop protecting me and do your job.' He snaps and they share a worried glance.

'Do you know what he used to cut himself?' one of them asks trying to restore some calm.'

'Scalpel.' Sherlock mumbles his voice quiet again and then he falls entirely silent. One hand on John's calf, the calf is safe, the medics don't need to work there, but his eyes determinedly fixed on John's face where one medic is stoically working to ensure that John keeps breathing. A heart monitor starts to beat a slow rhythm and at least that is something.

Sherlock doesn't like to see how the medics leave John uncovered from the hip to just above the knee, it seems to leave too much of John's privacy bared for them to see. Then he realises that he has done the same. Oh God, he actually carried his friend naked into a London street for all the world to see. John will kill him… but then John might not be able to kill him, because John might not wake up and he begins to tremble more violently, his breathing coming in short puffs. His vision seems to swim and he feels a soft blanket land on his back. It's not orange, just thick and warm. He isn't aware of the medic who rolls up his sleeve and pushes a sedative into the crook of his arm but he does feel the world going foggy around the edges and all that remains is the slow beat of John's heart Monitor and the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

Mycroft is waiting at the clinic when they arrive and he hears the medics' shouts for help. He also sees as a nurse all but lifts his brother out of the ambulance and he starts toward him. Damn all this caring lark. He thinks as he moves forward and takes over from her supporting Sherlock who is swaying on his feet clearly drugged with glassy eyes and a confused look. 'He was panicing they had to sedate him.' The little nurse informs before she rushes to help bundle John out of the ambulance something which is made more difficult with heart monitors and oxygen and IVs tangling, but they are professional and experienced and when John is swiftly wheeled into the clinic Mycroft urges his brother to follow which he stoically does.

They're showed to a waiting room where Mycroft pushes Sherlock into a chair and looks him over. He is drenched from having hauled John out of the bath and smeared with blood, not only on his hands and clothes but on his face and in his hair where he has been rubbing at himself. Ten minutes ago when he was still tripping with adrenaline Mycroft has no doubt that he would have been looking terrifying, like some deranged axe murderer. Now sedated to the point where he can barely stand he just looks utterly lost. He's shivering, whether from the cold of being out in wet clothes or from shock Mycroft can't say. He wraps the blanket more tightly around Sherlock and goes in search of a change of clothes and some very sweet tea.

When he returns with a clean set of pyjama bottoms and an overly large sweater and two cups of tea Sherlock hasn't moved. He is sat staring at his hands mumbling under his breath. Mycroft was going to force the tea down him first but he can see what the sight of the blood is doing to his younger brother so he drags Sherlock into a nearby bathroom and strips him down to his boxers. They are wet like the rest of him but really there are limits so they will have to stay. He urges Sherlock to wash and Sherlock scrubs ineffectively at himself. After some ten minutes Sherlock is mostly clean. They can't do anything about his hair. That will have to wait until he can have a shower but it is so dark that it is hard to tell anyway. Mycroft hands him the items of clothing one at a time and stoically Sherlock puts them on.

Mycroft has never seen him like this. But then again the times that he has seen Sherlock drugged he has either been angry or so strung out he is more or less unconscious, or in fact completely unconscious, never sad or as Mycroft feels more inclined to describe it, utterly distraught. He pushes Sherlock back into a chair and puts one of the cups of tea in his hands. Sherlock is still trembling and he retrieves another blanket which he wraps around him with the order 'Drink, I'll see what I can find out.'

**Ok I wish I could include in this chapter what happens when Mycroft gets back but then it will end up far too long. Sorry. I'll see if I can get it too you tomorrow… **


	35. Mycroft's Reichenbach fall

**Ok, I know the ending of this is a bit sentimental but I blame the drugs.**

Mycroft returns with a determined look on his face. Sherlock hasn't moved. He is still clutching the cup but at least he has drunk the tea. Mycroft crouches before him. He really wonders what is the best course of action. To treat Sherlock like normal to try to snap him out of it and restore some semblance of normality or to take care of him and coddle him like the grieving relative he is acting like at the moment. He tries for an in-between.

'Sherlock? Come on Sherlock, snap out of it and listen to me.' Sherlock looks up his gaze a little more aware than before. 'I'm not sure how much of this you'll remember later on but John is stable, critical but stable. Do you hear me?' He shakes he brother's shoulder slightly and for no apparent reason Sherlock reaches out and hands him his cup. 'They're moving him to a room and you can see him. I just want you to be prepared that he isn't looking so good. He's back on the ventilator and they also have him on dialysis. It's not necessarily a bad thing, it's a precaution because his kidneys took a bad hit with the blood loss. They just don't want them to give out. Do you understand?' Sherlock looks up at him and nods standing on shaky legs. 'Ok, let's go.' Sherlock seems quite capable of following on his own now and Mycroft avoids having to touch him after what feels like an awful lot of touching lately.

A guard they haven't seen before is standing outside John's room when Sherlock and Mycroft enter it and the latter gives him a curt nod of recognition. Sherlock however has eyes only for John who lies in a bed just inside the window attached to more machines than Sherlock thought feasible. There is the familiar ventilator and a fairly standard looking IV apart from the fact that one of the bags hanging from it is clearly filled with blood, but also a heart monitor which beeps reassuringly and a strange contraption that Sherlock has never actually seen before but assumes is performing the dialysis. It's attached to John's arm with numerous tubes and if Sherlock was not feeling quite out of it he would find the blood flowing through them fascinating.

Mycroft allows him to stand there just looking for a minute before he gets on with his plan. 'Sherlock! Now that you've seen him are you awake and aware enough to listen to what I have planned?' he asked but Sherlock ignored him and moved up to John's side brushing his hand absentmindedly across the blanket.

'Sherlock, listen to me or this won't work.' Still no reaction from his brother and Mycroft's innate desire to push his brother picks up even in this sensitive situation.

'We need to make the world see him die.' Mycroft's words are intentionally provocative in order to get his brother's attention and it works. Sherlock whirls on him, dropping the blanket draped around his shoulders and looking, despite the sedation, like he is about to try to throttle him.

'You unimaginable, utter bastard, how can you even suggest that?' Sherlock shouts, loud enough to bring a nurse running who pushes them out of the room and into the corridor, claiming that they will upset John even though John is clearly dead to the world…. An unfortunate phrase if ever there was one.

Mycroft pushes Sherlock back into another room. Something which is easier than it has ever been since they were children. 'I didn't say that we let him die. I said we let the world see him die.' He corrects the assumptions he knows his brother has been making somewhere in his currently more than usually confused mind. But he sees Sherlock's mind gaining understanding with a level of recovery that to anyone but them would be remarkable. However to Mycroft it is slow and torturous and he knows that fast as his brother's realisation is it still is nowhere near his normal mental acuity.

'The entrance to the clinic is packed with reporters. You were seen leaving Baker Street and the news are going viral. We can use this.' Mycroft argues. 'If we let them think that he has died we will be sure to find that Karl Larson does not try to attack him again, or any of his friends or relatives. It will put him off his guard; make him think he has won. Sherlock it's the best option we have.' And to Mycroft's surprise Sherlock nods in agreement.

'What do I have to do?' he asks a little wearily and Mycroft forces himself not to smile at what is possibly the first time since their childhood that Sherlock agrees to take orders from his older brother. 'Go back in there, sleep for an hour until the drugs wear off, then we'll need every ounce of your acting ability to make this plausible.' Sherlock nods reluctantly.

'Once you are more yourself you need to go out and put on a show for the media, play the mourning friend. We need to make the most of it and make them publish stories that will show that Sherlock Holmes has truly broken down over the death of his best friend. Do you think you can do that?' Mycroft asks.

'I'm a good actor.' Sherlock replies. He doesn't add that he has an arsenal of material to draw from based on the past day. Material that will allow him to know exactly how to act. He knows what it feels like to think your world is falling apart. He knows what the beginnings of a panic attack feel like. He knows what it feels like to realise that you have humiliated your friend and that he might never be around to shout at you for doing it. Oh no… Sherlock will be able to act the part he is certain of that.

'After that you can't see him. Not until we catch this guy. I can probably bring you in here once again under the guise of a breakdown but as soon as we move you back to Baker Street you can't come back and even if he's fine I can't bring him there. I can set up a video link but that is all I can do. Can you come with that?' Mycroft asks and there are several minutes before Sherlock hesitantly nods.

'I'll have them move the beds together. They said you liked to sleep in his but you can't right now, he's not well enough.' Mycroft offers and Sherlock doesn't quite know whether to scream at the fact that his brother is digging his claws into what feels to be the most private parts of his still raw bundle of feelings, or to thank him profusely for the chance to sleep for an hour close enough to John to touch him before their world is once again turned upside down by Mycroft's machinations.

Once the beds are pushed together he curls up, surprisingly willingly and probably still very much under the influence of he drugs, on the bed, wraps the blanket over himself and pulls his pillow as close to John's bed as possible so that he can reach out and touch the fingers of John's right hand. He can't hold him but he is clearly there, and in the silence of the room he can hear the slow beating of the heart monitor and it lulls him to sleep.


	36. Putting on a show

Sherlock wakes, not one but nearly two hours later in the strangest position he has ever found himself. He is nearly half way through the bars of the bed and onto the next mattress. The fingers of his left hand are entwined with those of his flat mate's. His right arm is pushed as far as possible across John's body but it ends up resting with the palm somewhere across John's chest. His legs have not managed to be as dexterous and only his right foot has made it across to John's bed.

He can hear breathing behind him and pulling his hands back he turns around. Mycroft is watching him with a pleased smirk on his face. 'Sherlock, Sherlock, such sentiment.' He croons when he sees his brother awake and Sherlock pulls his hands into his chest in frustration.

'Are you ready to go ahead with the plan?' Mycroft asks.

'Just fill me in on the details.' Sherlock says, unwilling to admit that he does in fact only remember parts of their previous conversation.

'We change you back into the clothes you came in here with. Make sure you are smeared with a decent amount of blood and then we send you out among the reporters. You will fake a breakdown and I will come in and drag you back here. You will have 24 hours here in which the news will pick up your ill health and then we will move you back to Baker Street in order to make another scene and entice the press. With any luck this will have Larson thinking that he has in fact succeeded in his venture and there will be no more attacks on John. Just in case I will keep the guard with him.' Mycroft indicates the man outside the door who currently is a rather wiry looking chap but no doubt as lethal as the rest of them.

Sherlock agrees and within minutes he is back in his own clothes. They feel sticky and horrible. Partially stiff where they have dried and partially still wet they are most uncomfortable. A woman turns up as Sherlock is getting dressed and ushers him into the bathroom. There she squirts blood on him messing up his hair and brushing it across his face to achieve maximum effect. Sherlock has the feeling it is not the first time she has done this. 'Give it a minute to dry and you will be good to go.' She says and disappears. Sherlock is glad that the blood drying on his face isn't John's this time but some random stranger's. It doesn't however change the fact that the rusty brown staining his shirt is almost exclusively John's.

'Ready?' Mycroft asks and Sherlock nods silently looking over at John who is still unconscious and thus unable to give his consent to this scheme. Sherlock wonders briefly if he would approve.

They make their way down the stairs and Sherlock takes a deep breath before turning the corner to make himself visible. He can see the crowd of reporters outside and can't help but think that John would find it ridiculous that his 'death' would draw this kind of crowd. He knows he looks a fright, he has looked in the mirror and he pushes through the doors allowing the cameras to get the full effect.

'Mr Holmes, is Dr Watson dead?' a woman throws at him. So predictable

'Yes.' He nods slowly making it sound tortured. An image of John in the bath flashes before his eyes.

'Why did he kill himself?' A pushier reporter asks and Sherlock turns bringing his hands up to block the flash of the camera.

'Please, I don't…. ' he pleads and he thinks of John. John in that red tinted bath… pushing his fingers forcefully down John's throat to make him throw up, John in his arms so very, very still… John being pulled away from him by the paramedics…. John hooked up to all those machines, John who still might not make it… and the tears are not fake when they come and when his breathing picks up and he wraps his arms around himself allowing the panic attack to take him this time it is anything but fake. His heart rate picks up, his breathing starts to come in little gasps and the pain in his chest makes him feel like he is dying.

He collapses to the pavement and one of the reporters actually has the decency to drop her microphone and crouch next to him, asking how he is doing, not for the camera but because she is concerned. He has gone ghostly pale and he is gasping for breath as though someone is strangling him.

Just as the world starts to turn black Sherlock feels Mycroft's hands on his arm. 'Leave my brother alone. His best friend just died, he doesn't need you lot making it worse.' Mycroft tries to pull Sherlock to his feet but his younger brother is completely limp on the ground. 'Come on, get up Sherlock, I'll take you back inside.' He urges but Sherlock doesn't move. Realising that his younger brother isn't faking it, that he actually has passed out Mycroft grudgingly pulls him into his arms and lifts his slender frame bridal style, it will look best for the cameras, and carry him back into the clinic.

He half expects Sherlock to raise his head and laugh at him when they reach the privacy of the clinic but he doesn't. He is still a dead weight in Mycroft's arms as he lowers him to the floor and yells for help.

He knows he is being unreasonable when he demands that someone arrange so his younger brother can sleep next to his very ill friend who will surely not benefit from having an octopus like detective strapped to him. He knows he is endangering national security when he ignores the calls to his phone in favour of staying to watch to ensure that both men are as safe as is possible. He also knows he is being irrational when he refuses to eat or drink anything the kind nurse brings and instead has Anthea bring him a bottle of water. He knows but somehow Sherlock's excessive sentiment seems to have rubbed off on his older brother and Mycroft finds himself spending all night slumped in a chair watching his brother sleep curled up next to his ailing flatmate who is slowly gaining strength. He does not look forward to having to tear Sherlock away and drag him back to Baker Street.


	37. Of papers and waking

Sherlock woke the next day to the feeling of someone rufling his hair and he was about to tell Mycroft off for it when he realised it wasn't Mycroft but John.

'You're awake. How do you feel?' He sat up quickly and John's hand dropped to the bed.

'Tired. Humiliated. Why didn't you just let me die?' the question was absolutely serious and John looked so sad when he blinked up at his flatmate.

'I did. To everyone outside of this clinic you're dead and gone.' Sherlock said proudly even though it had in fact been his brother's idea. However Mycroft was not around to take credit having popped out to talk to the medical staff.

'That's good.' John mumbled 'You're in my bed.' He stated with a frown and Sherlock smiled down at him.

'Nope, I'm in mine, they're just attached.' He answered and then a thought occurred to him. What if John didn't want him this close. What if what had been done to him back in his bedroom had left him not wanting this kind of proximity.

'Is it ok that I'm here. It would appear that panic attacks leave you rather tired. Mycroft had me admitted.' He said and John's eyes opened wide at the revelation.

'You had a panic attack?' he asked incredulous.

'Yes, I don't recommend it. It was only supposed to be for show but it worked rather better than I had foreseen. Apparently Mycroft had to carry me back in the clinic. Very embarrassing.' Revealing his embarrassment was all worth it when he saw a small smile pull at the side of John's mouth.

'I'm tired, think I need to sleep. Will you be here when I wake up?' John asked.

Sherlock felt like someone had taken his heart and twisted it in his chest. 'I might not be. I have to go back to Baker Street and continue the charade that you're dead. John's face fell.

At that point Mycroft entered with a bunch o newspapers in his hand. 'It worked, you're in every single paper. The Sun has you on the cover.' He informed and then halted as he saw John awake. 'Good morning John.' Mycroft said politely.

'Is there a picture of Sherlock being carried by you? Cause I'd like to see that.' John murmured weakly.

Mycroft hesitated, not willing to let John see the papers. The truth was that there were plenty of pictures of Sherlock being carried back into the clinic but not as many as the pictures of a highly pixelated but none the less clearly naked John being carried out of 221B by Sherlock.

'I'm sure we can find you a picture of that.' Mycroft said instead placing the papers on a side table well out of John's reach. 'For now I'll get the doctor, he will want to know that you're awake.'

'He's acting more weird than usual.' John mumbled but his eyes were drifting shut again and Sherlock was sad to see him slip off into sleep once more. He hated the idea of having to leave John alone but he also knew that it was necessary in order to keep him safe.

Once he was sure that John was once again asleep he slipped out of bed and made his way over to the newspapers. Mycroft was right, they had garnered a lot of attention. The front page of the Sun bore the title _Detective drives blogger to suicide_ in bold letters under which were twin pictures of himself holding John while waiting for the ambulance and Mycroft scowling at the camera while lifting Sherlock from the ground. The two could be mirror images if it wasn't for the fact that he himself had the good fortune of being clothed. They both looked absolutely awful, covered in blood and towered over by a concerned looking Holmes brother. Sherlock was impressed by Mycroft's acting ability. He looked both sad and angry as he clutched his younger brother to his chest. _Holmes Senior confirms the death of blogger John Watson_ read the text under the picture and Sherlock could not help but shiver slightly. It was certainly convincing.

Mycroft came back with the doctor who checked John's vitals and said that now that he had woken up they could be fairly sure that he would pull through. That was of course exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear and he was more willing than he would have otherwise been to go with Mycroft when his brother urged him to come back to Baker Street with him.

'Ok, you need to put on an act of grieving now but if you could avoid passing out again that would be good.' Mycroft told him as they walked through the clinic toward the waiting crowd. Sherlock wondered if the press had in fact slept on the pavement outside the clinic but noted that they were all crisply dressed and so had almost certainly just turned up in hopes of seeing him released.

As soon as they exited the cameras started flashing and questions were flung from all around.

'Why did Dr Watson kill himself?'

'Will there be a public funeral?'

'Are you going to be looking for a new flatmate?'

Sherlock nearly lunged at the man who had asked that last question and he would have had it not been for Mycroft wrapping an arm protectively around him and pulling him away from the reporters. Sherlock resisted him and turned to face the crowd with tears running down his face. 'He was murdered, a stupid, evil man tormented him for months and he still wouldn't have killed himself if said madman hadn't started to attack his friends and family. John Watson was a hero and he was murdered, put that in your papers and stop humiliating him by posting unflattering pictures of him just to sell more copies.' He shouted in a perfect display of grief stricken anger.

'Were you two a couple?'

'Did you have any idea he was going to do it?'

The questions started raining down again but this time Sherlock allowed Mycroft to lead him away to the waiting black car.

'That was very convincing.' Mycroft said as the car pulled away.

'Yes well, it doesn't take much work. It was very nearly not a performance. You will set up that video link won't you? So I can make sure he's safe.' Sherlock responds staring out the window as they make their way through London.

Once they reached Baker Street they were met by another horde of reporters shouting the same inane questions. Mrs Hudson met them in the door with red eyes and dressed all in black in an antiquated display of mourning. 'Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry she said and wrapped him in her arms. Sherlock melted into her embrace sobbing openly making sure that the reporters got their photo opportunity.

'Leave us alone to grieve in peace.' Mycroft yelled at them setting off another flurry of questions. We'll issue an official statement but for now just leave us alone.' He said as Mrs Hudson gently guided Sherlock inside and away from prying eyes. Sherlock felt a little bit guilty at not being able to tell her the truth but she would know soon enough. As soon as they had found Larson and he could bring John back home again.


	38. To keep up the act or give up the act

Mrs Hudson hovers for a short while before Mycroft asks her for some privacy and with a sad face she returns to her flat. The façade drops as she leaves and Sherlock slumps in his chair with a heavy sigh.

'Good work, brother mine. You almost had me convinced.' Mycroft says as Sherlock wipes his eyes on his sleeve. He had been provided with a new set of clothes since the previous day so he was no longer in the blood stained shirt from the previous morning's ordeal, something for which he was extremely grateful.

'The video link. When will it be up?' Sherlock asks and Mycroft smirks slightly.

'It should already be up. A simple video feed so that you can see him, projected from the television set, it doesn't have any sound I'm afraid, and he has his own computer on a stand by the bed so that you can communicate when he wakes up properly. That one he has the ability to switch on and off.' Mycroft walks over to Sherlock's computer and without further ado enters his brother's password and accesses the secure site.

Sherlock doesn't comment on the ease with which his brother accesses his private computer. He has done the same thin to John so many times and he knows well enough that Mycroft is as adept as himself at hacking any computer he finds. They have been doing it to each other since they were teenagers.

The site powers up and an image of John curled up in his bed, turned away from the camera appears on the screen. Sherlock stares intently. John doesn't seem to have moved since they left an hour and a half ago. Sherlock hopes he's asleep.

'You'll provide me with updates?' He asks his brother and Mycroft nods.

'I'll be working partly from the flat. We need to keep up the pretence of you struggling with John's death. A familial presence will be expected. I have spoken to mummy and she's coming down this evening to relieve me. She knows it's a fake so it will be easier for you than having your other friends here to nurse you. You won't have to put on a show.' Sherlock nods at his brother's explanation. As much as he's loath to admit it Mycroft is proving useful.

'So what do you expect me to do? Just sit here and wait?' Sherlock asks bitterly.

'Yes, while I am here you can help me with my work; there will be a lot of calls coming in possible sightings to sift through. Later when John is more awake and aware he will need you, even if it is just over the computer.' Mycroft states calmly and Sherlock reluctantly agrees.

Half an hour later a man dressed as a doctor arrives with an array of computer equipment for Mycroft. 'Officially he's here to see to you.' Mycroft explains as Sherlock frowns at the man producing various electronics out of a medical bag. They soon have something of an office set up on the kitchen table. Mycroft had suggested that he use John's room since John would not be there to make use of it but Sherlock had sternly refused and Mycroft had decided it was best to pick ones battles and moved Sherlock's test tubes and petri dishes to the kitchen counter and taken over the kitchen table.

Sherlock had been glued to the computer screen showing John's room for the first few hours but when the phones started ringing and e-mails started arriving he joined Mycroft at the table to sift through the information. Lead after lead arrived with nothing really useful. Sherlock and Mycroft could sift through most of it without too much effort and discard it as false leads or dead ends.

At five o'clock when they were starting to think it might be time for mummy to arrive Mycroft got a call which made him get up and leave the room. Sherlock scowled after him in frustration as he disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom. He did however decide to ignore his frustrating brother and continue to analyse e-mails figuring that the sooner they worked through the material the sooner they would find Larsen.

Mycroft returned ten minutes later, clearly a shade paler then before and fiddling with his pocket watch in a disconcerting manner. Sherlock stood up to face him. 'What happened Mycroft?' he said in his most demanding voice and Mycroft looked up at him with pity in his eyes. 'Mycroft tell me, is it John?' Sherlock nearly shouted as he stumbled out of the kitchen toward the computer which had sat unattended through the day as they had worked apart from two brief coffee breaks when Sherlock had sauntered over and looked at John who had seemed to be sleeping in the same position all day.

'Don't freak out Sherlock. He's still stable.' There was that word, 'stable' when they had left the clinic all had seemed fine. John had been awake.

'What happened Mycroft?' Sherlock yelled as he watched in terror at the life feed which showed John's bed empty and stained dark red.

'I'm sorry Sherlock. Just half an hour ago they went to check on him when his heart monitor went haywire. He'd upped his morphine and picked his wounds open again.' Mycroft's face was its usual mask of calm but his eyes seemed full of pity as Sherlock slumped in the chair in front of the computer.

'Why?' he whispered 'He doesn't have to now, they're all safe. Why would he do that?' Sherlock sounded utterly bewildered and Mycroft ignored the phone as it rang once again.

'It's not that simple little brother. I suspect part of him genuinely wants to die.' Mycroft offered sympathetically as he approached is brother.

'No.' Sherlock said forcefully watching the empty room where his flatmate should have been sleeping. 'No.' he repeated. 'John's better than that, he's stronger than that.' He shouted at his brother.

'Shush, Sherlock they'll hear you outside.' Mycroft scolded and placed a hand on his brother's arm.

'I don't care who hears me. Just fix this Mycroft. He's not supposed to want to die.' Sherlock yelled and Mycroft was well aware that his words could most likely be heard out onto the street where a few reporters were still huddled.

Trying to save the situation Mycroft resorted to yelling himself. 'Sherlock, he's already dead, there's nothing I can do.' He yelled at the top of his lungs and he knew that Sherlock, even though Mycroft had already told him John was alright was taking the words far too much to heart than was healthy. He clutched at his chest as his breathing picked up and hitched in his throat and Mycroft sighed in exasperation. Not again. He thought as he kneeled before his brother trying to get him to calm his breathing. At least this time Sherlock didn't pass out and Mycroft managed to guide him into his bedroom and make him swallow enough sedatives to knock him out for the night.

When mummy arrived he was sat slumped at Sherlock's kitchen table with a phone grasped in one hand and a live feed of John Watson Strapped to his bed in the clinic, for his own safety, on the computer in front of him. 'Oh Myce' his mother said in a sad voice when she saw him and she rushed over and wrapped her arms around him. Mycroft would never cry, or give voice to his utter frustration, but for just a few moments he allowed his mother to hold him and brush her hand gently across his neck above his stiff shirt collar.


	39. Mummy

Sherlock is sat at the kitchen table with a wonderfully intricate experiment set up in front of him. He can't quite remember what it is that he is trying to prove but it is infinitely fascinating. The colour in the test tube keeps changing in a most satisfying way and there are thin wisps of smoke emanating from it. The light from the small kitchen window is catching the equipment in ways that make them sparkle with sunlight and it is mesmerising.

John comes up next to him and hads him a cup of tea which smells wonderfully comforting. 'Beautiful isn't it?' Sherlock says looking up at his friend standing next to him.

'I didn't think you cared about things like that.' John says as he sips his tea but there is no malice in his voice.

'Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.' Sherlock points out and the conversation seems oddly familiar. It carries with it a strange sense of déjà vu. Sherlock can't shake the feeling that this has happened before and when it did it made him happy. He his happy now.

John smiles and nods, he looks happy too. Then he reaches out a hand and strokes Sherlock's hair. That is odd Sherlock thinks. He has known John to play with his hair, to ruffle it and tug at it teasingly but he has never, ever stroked it like he was petting an animal or a small child.

Then John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's temple and he knows that something is very strange indeed, something is decidedly wrong. Sherlock gasps slightly and blinks rapidly and suddenly the kitchen is gone and he is looking up into the worried eyes of his mother as she strokes his hair back gently, softly like she used to do when he was little and he had a fever.

'Mummy?' He sits up and she reaches over to the bedside table and hands him the cup of tea she had placed there. Suddenly it all makes sense… the tea, the stroking, the kiss. John isn't here. John tried to kill himself and if Sherlock is lucky, very lucky, he is still stuck in a bed in Mycroft's blasted clinic where Sherlock is not allowed to go.

'I'm here sweetie.' His mother says in that infuriatingly soft voice that makes Sherlock feel five years old again.

'Mycroft drugged me.' Sherlock pouts as he takes the tea and clutches it in his slender hands warming them on the cup.

'I know sweetie, he had to. You were having a panic attack; he says you've had a few in the past few days.' She looks sad and worried.

'I was not, he's exaggerating.' Sherlock huffs even though he knows that it is pretty much true. 'I was just angry.'

'Sherlock…' his mother says in a stern voice 'don't blame your brother for this, you were shouting, crying and hyperventilating. He was just looking out for you, and you swallowed the pills willingly when he gave them to you.'

Sherlock blushes despite his best efforts to look angry and aloof. 'How do you know, you weren't there?' he grumbles but the fight has gone out of him and he is arguing more on principle than anything else.

'Is he still here? Has he spoken to the clinic? Is John alright?' He mumbles looking at his mother through his eyelashes as he drinks his overly sweet tea.

'Mycroft has left. He and your detective friend are giving an official statement to the press in an hour. Don't fret, they'll give your condolences. It's better if you're not there. I have spoken to the clinic. Your friend, John, he's been awake again but he won't speak to them. They hope that he will feel better by the morning. They have a therapist coming, and you'll be able to talk to him. I'm sure he will feel better.' She smiles comfortingly but it is so obviously a front that as much as Sherlock loves her he wishes he could rip her to pieces for being such a bad actress. She clearly doesn't care about John.

'Shut up, you don't care about John, what are you doing here anyway.' He snaps in what he knows is an unfair form of retaliation.

'I care about you love. I don't want you to get hurt.' She says softly, once again stroking his hair as though that will solve anything.

'It's a bit late for that isn't it. Two days ago I carried my only friend out of this flat because he had been tormented by a madman until he tried to kill himself and you think your stroking my hair and making tea is going to make me not hurt.' Sherlock was panting as he spoke and his mother tried do calm him down asking him to please not get so agitated…

'Agitated… you think I'm agitated…' Sherlock huffed 'He was raped while I was asleep downstairs… I was fucking asleep…' Sherlock shouted throwing the mug of tea against the wall and scooting away from his mother. ' I was so stupid, so blind… they raped him, they beat him, they broke him and what did I do… I sat in my room and I saw nothing, not until it was too late.' Sherlock was trembling. He was aware of mummy trying to wrap her arms around him but he did not want her comfort. He did not want other people's assurances that John would be alright when he had seen for himself the damage that John would do to himself if left to his own devices.

Instead ne screamed at his mother… he blamed his brother, and he broke every piece of breakable material placed within his reach until his mother sank down next to him with an offer he could not refuse.

'He's awake. You could call him.' She whispered carefully brushing his hand and she saw her son relaxing and then tensing again. She could not put into words what her younger son was feeling now. She knew that what her older son was battling with was a strange mixture of guilt and responsibility, neither of which was entirely appropriate but both of which made a lot of sense, but when she saw her younger son reacting so far away from his normal stoical self, actually crying and physically reacting to the stimuli around him she did not know what to think.

Of course none of these reactions were new to her. She had felt them all herself in one way or another but Sherlock had always claimed such complete incomprehension when love and fear and confusion were concerned that seeing him now, crumbling under the weight of someone else's pain was utterly confusing.

She wondered if she was doing any good being here… did it help at all. Her sons really were s fragile and they both refused to show any sign of it… she felt utterly helpless to care for either of them. Sherlock was clearly crumbling at the sight of his friends pain and Mycroft looked as stressed and in pain ash she had seen him since he left for university. His fear for his younger brother was not even thinly veiled, largely because he knew that she was the only one who would see his pain, and most likely he actually wanted her to see it. When he left for the press conference a few minutes ago his eyes had been lowered and his hands had been trembling slightly. Not enough to be visible but enough that she had felt it when she took his hands in hers and wished him good luck.

She hoped with every hair on her head that this would turn out alright and her sons would be happy again. Although she had a strange feeling that this outcome was strangely dependent on one army doctor currently strapped to his bed and doing his utmost to find a way to end his life.


	40. And yet another suicide

As so many times in his childhood Sherlock does as his mother suggests. With her cup of tea clasped in his hands and a silk dressing gown tightly wrapped around him he curls up in front of the computer and he pushes the button that will call John's room. John looks like he's asleep but as soon as Sherlock pushes the call button John's eyes open and fix on the computer screen next to him, even though he is strapped to the bed and can't touch it.

A young and slender nurse appears at John's side and work her magic on the computer set up beside him. 'Hello Mr Holmes, John has been looking forward to your call.' She says in a cheery voice that does not reflect the expressionless face John presents when he looks at the computer.

'John, are you alright?' Sherlock asks putting his tea down beside him and focusing on the image of his friend.

'What do you think? You're the genius make a deduction.' John croaks and Sherlock winces at his broken voice.

'I'm sorry John.' Sherlock says softly and his flatmate shakes his head.

'What are you sorry about? I'm the one who tried to kill myself, Larson is the one who broke me. It's not like any of it is your fault. Don't let him win.' John says bitterly, looking away from the camera and unknowingly staring almost straight into the other camera that Mycroft had set up on the television.

'You're not broken John. You're hurt but we'll fix that everything will be like before.' Sherlock tries to reassure even though he knows that in the best of worlds where John heals perfectly there is no way things will ever go back to the way they were before. Too much has happened, too much has changed.

'It's too late. John's gone. He's dead. Just forget about him please.' John's voice is strangely calm as he utters the strange request.

'Stop talking about yourself in the third person John. We'll get him, we'll fix this.' Sherlock can hear his own voice growing more frantic, the pitch getting higher.

'Please turn it off.' John says looking at someone off camera. Surely the nurse.

'John please don't… ' he trails off. Don't what? Don't turn the camera off, don't fall apart, don't try to kill yourself, don't break my heart… he doesn't even really know what he is asking for.

'Don't what? I can't do much of anything, can't even wipe my own behind.' John spits the words into the camera pulling ineffectively on the restraints that hold him to the bed.

'I'm sorry John, it's just to keep you safe. I'll make sure they take them off as soon as I can be with you.' Sherlock promises and John laughs. It is not the happy giggle that Sherlock loves but a rather sarcastic and angry sound. One that despite the laughing does not suggest happiness.

'Don't you get it. I don't want to be safe.' John shouts at the camera and the nurse turns up at his side again placing a hand gently on his shoulder, but John tries to flinch away.

'Just turn it off, please, make him go away.' John pleads and the words cut Sherlock like a knife, and then the camera goes dead and the flat is silent. Sherlock can still see John of course, through Mycroft's other camera, see him trying to pull away from the woman at his side and failing as the restraints hold him in place. He sits staring at the screen as the two figures before him fight an uneven battle, as the woman presses the button by John's bed and a stern looking doctor arrives injecting something in John's IV that makes him slump against the bed and fall back asleep.

It seems like the world has stopped spinning but somewhere behind him his mother is still bustling around making domestic noises.

'Don't you want to see your brother and the detective?' his mother asks as she turns on the television. 'I'm inviting your landlady up so you have to turn the computer feed off anyway. She continues and Sherlock flinches. Even if John doesn't want to talk to him he wants to see him. Yet if Mrs Hudson is coming up he has no choice. Why is his mother consciously depriving him of the one thing he wants? He turns the live feed down and opens a page detailing management of suicidal ideation that he had been reading the previous morning when they got back. It seems appropriate.

When he hears footsteps on the stairs he curls up on the sofa with his face turned away from the room. What is the point in listening of Mycroft and Lestrade, it is all lies anyway.

Mrs Hudson is very quiet as she enters the flat. She accepts a cup of tea from mummy and sits down in Sherlock's chair watching him silently.

'Is there anything I can do?' she asks slowly and mummy shakes her head.

'I don't think there is much any of us can do.' She says as she crosses the room and looms over her son, knowing that even though the death of his flatmate is a fake her son is slowly falling apart. She can tell, she sees the cracks forming as he curls up and turns the world away, much like he did twenty years ago when his dog succumbed to cancer. His pain had terrified her then and it did the same now. His mourning was supposed to be pretend, a show for the cameras but she knew it wasn't. Even if the kind young doctor wasn't dead Sherlock was mourning and she wished she could protect him.

Instead she turned on the TV and herself and Mrs Hudson watched as her elder son and the kindly grey haired detective explained to the world that doctor Watson had taken his own life after being physically and mentally tormented by a man called Karl Larson for several months. There was a picture of the man in questions, and a very nice picture of John smiling at the camera with a glint in his eye. She could tell that Sherlock heard every word because every time one of the men started to describe one of the horrible ordeals the doctor had endured his shoulders tensed and a shudder ran down his spine. Yet she said nothing, he did not watch and he did not visibly react to the plea of his brother that anyone who may have seen the criminal in question please ring the number displayed.

She allowed her son to pretend that he was asleep throughout the television performance, through seeing his kindly and very sad landlady out the door and for an hour after that. The doorbell had been ringing incessantly through the day and her son had stubbornly showed her how to silence it by putting it in the freezer but two hours after the press conference the door opened without the bell ringing.

The steps on the stairs were rhythmic but fast and even though she could tell they belonged to her older son she was surprised. They did not have his usual calm and contained air. Clearly Sherlock had noted the same because he stood up from his constant position in front of the computer and looked at the door as his brother entered.

'He's dead…' Mycroft looked calm and collected but his tone as he delivered the news revealed something of his satisfaction to his observant mother.

'You didn't kill him, something else.' Sherlock observed as he stared at his brother.

'He was found twenty minutes ago in a hotel room just outside Bracknell. He killed himself, slit wrists, painkillers just like Charlotte and John.' Mycroft informed with a surprising amount of satisfaction in his voice. The two brothers stared at each other, both wondering if it was even possible that this was the end of their ordeal.

'Can I go see him? John, can I see him now?' Sherlock asked with urgency in his voice and Mycroft nodded with a small smile.


	41. Becoming Richard III

**A chapter produced between museum and theatre visits in Sherlock's own London.**

Sherlock bounded into the room with a mixture of enthusiasm and trepidation. The case was solved, all was well. Except, all was not well. They had found Larson which was all good and well, but now they had to fix John and fixing people was not Sherlock's strong suit. Finding out why they were broken was exciting but he was more likely to take them apart and leave them that way than to try to put them back together.

'Larsson is dead. He killed himself this afternoon.' He declared matter of factly as he entered John's bedroom.

'Lucky him.' Came the curt reply from the bed and that really was not the response Sherlock had been hoping for.

'I was hoping for: oh good now let's find another case. Things are good now. Everything is over and we can start having fun again.' He said pointedly.

John glared at him pointedly. 'You may feel that you have won, that you can hang up the battle axe but it's not the same for me.' John argued. 'I can't even look in a mirror without feeling sick. I'm deformed, undone, if I leave this place kids will stare and dogs will bark when I walk past I don't want that Sherlock.' John said with downcast eyes.

Sherlock shook his head. 'Don't be so melodramatic John. You may be a little worse for wear but it will heal.'

'I don't want to be what I will become.' John explained. 'I don't want to grow bitter with my own deformity. I don't want to despair when I find I cannot find love and end up a monster who hates everyone else who is happy and healthy.'

How could Sherlock not see that there would be no more cases, not for John? This couldn't be fixed with a bit of an adrenaline rush and some giggling at crime scenes. If John was not permanently crippled this time it would be a miracle. He had stopped struggling against the restraints and was now lying passively in the bed staring ahead of him. Or right now, at his normally so clever flat mate, who was doing a very good job of acting like an idiot, just like he enjoyed accusing others of doing.

'John you really have to start looking at this in a more positive light, we're rid of the threat now and we can start working on getting you well.' Sherlock said as he walked over and started to undo the restraints.

A sturdy looking nurse rose from the other end of the room getting ready to stop him but Mycroft, who was just entering fixed her with a steely glare so she sank back into her chair and returned to the magazine she had been reading before they had arrived.

'Sherlock, humans aren't machines.' John took a forced breath and struggled on 'If something is broken you can't just take a spare part and replace it.' He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Sometimes people are just broken.' John said wanting desperately to rub at his stiff wrists now that he was free of the restraints but with one hand in a cast and the other firmly wrapped in bandages it was impossible. He settled for wrapping his arms around himself and snuggling deeper under the duvet now that he was able to.

He hated what he had become. Hated the fact that every part of him seemed to be malfunctioning in some way or another, not least his head which was fuzzy with drugs. Part of him was ashamed of wat he had done and thought he should have been stronger, and yet part of him wanted to do it again, only properly this time. There was no Larson to stage a show for any more, this time he could do it properly, put a bullet through his brain or if he doesn't want to leave a mess for Sherlock and Mrs Hudson there are plenty of more secure forms of medication he can use. How he longs for the medical cupboard at work with its plethora of painless ways to end the pain and fear. Still he will never have access to that again, after all, he doesn't have a job any more. So he turns his back on Sherlock and closes his eyes, trying with the only means available to block things out.

The hours pass in silence. John stares at the ceiling and Sherlock stares at John and no one says anything. The only sound in the room is the slight wheeze that still remains in John's breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Sherlock can feel the tension building in his own mind and he doesn't understand how John can lie there and seemingly not care that he is producing nothing and achieving nothing. Sherlock may be sitting still but his mind is still spinning frantically. If John was an experiment how would he approach him? With a scientific approach and a hypothesis firmly rooted in previous research and solid deductions. But what would John himself say of that? He would make the same speech he had made earlier, that humans were not so easily deduced and fixed… yet John went to a therapist so he had to believe in psychiatry which was firmly rooted in the theory of the human mind as a kind of machine… Correction: John had used to go to a therapist, before, when he had been less happy when he had not been fully functioning….

Sherlock's musings went on and on turning in circles just as John's turned not at all. He let his mind be as blank as possible. He relished in the pain relief that let him float half an inch above himself and worked hard to let his mind grow as clouded as possible. That way he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel… and could almost pretend that he didn't exist.

**If anyone else is going to the Sherlock picnic in Regent's Park on the 19****th**** I'll be there and I'm the short woman with the overly long blonde hair and the black jacket. **

**And anyone who got the Richard III reference in that gets extra credit.**


End file.
